Nene
by xxxthecheekymanxxx
Summary: My name is Samuel Oak, I'm a professor who specializes in pokemon and human relationships. Recently, a manuscript was sent to me from a reliable source. I have decided, after much careful deliberation, to release it to the public. I'm certain this is necessary, as it highlights something we as a society must take into account, to, if nothing else, be more alert. (Pokephilia)
1. 1, 2

1

Nene, delicate trigger of my delight, dire reminder of my despair. Source of my guilt, sense of my life. Three sinful thoughts to burn me whole, two sighs to say her name, one second to release it in the air: Nene.

Her figure rested on fragile feet and legs, thin as the stem of a blooming rose, just as delicate, and of the same deep, nuanced color, tenderly tinged by Mother Nature herself. Always standing on the tip of her toes was Nene. When wide awake, the tangible power of her mind would help her fiddling lower limbs sustain her frame pridefully, and with perfect poise. It was a tantalizing exhibit of her preternatural reach. On her diaphanous body, her most vulnerable skin was covered, from the hips and upwards, by a sensitive coat which her mind likewise graced with mystical motion; colored like the sight of a blissful death, denser to the touch than its bare counterpart, but just as intoxicant, just as feverous; just as capable of sending my consciousness to the realm of my most coveted sensations, at digital contact. If I directed my sight slightly upward I'd find a dainty pair of shoulders, which led to her soft and slender arms and, by tenderly following along, ended in her adorably diminutive fingers, likewise very soft, and frolicsome. On top of her torso rested what was, perhaps, all things considered, the most fatally frail part of her body; her neck; always warm, and throbbing to the touch, as if it were its own particular being, for which I had to tend with special care. Her neck, her frangible jaw, her ever-changing face—lips, cheeks, nose—soothing, silencing, solipsizing. And her bewitching eyes, her big red eyes, always disarming.

An attempt from her concupiscent rage to escape her ineffectual vessel evidenced itself from the very top of her exquisite head, in the form of a dual waterfall of numbing green, one to her left, one to her right; and a rigid arc which hid her semblance from intruding eyes, of the same color—lighter than that of her most delicate skin—always nurtured, always shiny; always lovingly pleasant to my eyes and hands; containing Millions of radiant strands strong enough to cut through the harshest skin, powerful enough to disarm my enemies, to silence the voices in my head, to suppress them into oblivion.

Protruding from the green at the top of her, two translucent stones of a violent red, manifested the marriage of the mind and the flesh, and allowed me to access her most hidden and sensual neural core at will. Those two sensible blood horns pulsating with crimson life were clear indicative signs of her masterful ability to manipulate my endings, like a crown for the spellbinding queen of sensations; of every single one that is there to be sensed by the human body.

If you are ready, and willing, to stare into the pitiful insides of a beast as it wails in despair, continue reading. If you are not, leave in peace and stay away from my ghost.

2

A wicked act of sorcery might have been behind my arrival on this earth, where neither one of my progenitors lingers any longer. After all, my mother spoke to me abundantly about the two arduous and exasperating days she spent at the hospital, right on the welcoming mat, with my fresh and tender body bathed in the nurturing waters of creation, trapped between the entrancing realm of numbing warmth, and the dour and dangerous land of of the living. If only she had known, then, that the pain I'd bring her, the tears I would call out of her, would not stop until the day she died, perhaps she would have chosen to sever me in half with the doors of her agonizing threshold. That way she would have saved her poor and tortured soul a great deal of sorrow and distress.

Because, make no mistake, (yeah, you) I am well aware of my irregular nature. As you certainly know, as you probably feel, for mischievous curiosity might be the only reason you're reading this, with your eyes scintillating judgment to spill, at this very moment.

Be assured—deranged brother or sister—I am still human. As such, I can feel shame.

My gallant and venerated, greatly respected father died with alcohol cruising indiscriminately through his veins, while on a business trip, on the most endearingly welcoming side of the region of Sinnoh, as he tried—in his gleeful state—to milk a male ponyta to completion. His misguided, albeit friendly gesture, was received with sudden anger, and answered with a ferocious strike directed at his unconscious smile. One contact sufficed to end his life. He was born and raised in the Kalos region, on the picturesque town of Vaniville. The region saw him grow from inconspicuous modesty into a sizable character with much fame and fortune. After many hearts were broken by his smooth prowess, he settled down in Lumiose City with my own statuesque mother. I let in my first breath just as my father laid ground for his second hotel; strictly five stars. And from there, a franchise and financial prosperity—obscenely prosperous—momentarily hid the tragic cloud that was to torment my name soon enough.

The discernible product of my educated upbringing compels me to declare that a hotel is not an appropriate place in which a child should be raised, especially if said child is the owner's own chiefly privileged son. Of course I am not in my right mind to declare such thing as if it were an absolute certainty, and I cannot think of a time where I ever was in hold of a right mind, nor can I think of a time in the future where I could be. Regardless, my time full of consummate profligacy inside the hectic mausoleum which constituted my whole universe did teach me one thing: it taught me to mind the world outside of my kingdom with the same care with which I mind the soil of my shoe. Sooner rather than later I learned the level of cruelty which only humans seem to be capable of achieving. A taciturn kid with his head down, an unconscious practitioner of the most practical kind of stoicism, is as easy a target as a voiceless mareep fresh out of the womb, with its four limbs broken, and blind. A taciturn kid with his sight directed at the ground, or at any unspecified point in front of his eyes, with a myriad of secrets behind his eyes, for which, even then, with his limited and untrained understanding, he knows he should feel ashamed—he is to suffer.

But inside the warm and inviting walls—hiding a cold and disinterested interior—I was happy. Little deviant soon-to-be-orphan enjoyed the carelessly sheltered, gratuitously pampered, gradual rot of his spirit. Maids, chefs, cleaning staff, even the night manager, all would dance in the palm of my hand if I so desired. The death of my father shattered the barriers of what was humanely allowed for a petty child to do. Ultimately however, my omnipotence led to distrust and alienation consuming my insides, and irredeemably ingrained both of those corrupted drives to my core.

Didn't you think I could diagnose myself? Is it as clear for you as it is for me? Should I stop now? I truly pity you if you think my case can be solved simply by coldly rationalizing the events of my childhood.

I will forever rue the day I obtained my first love, with the same poisonous intensity with which I will cherish it. At ten years old this creature, whom the least understanding of you would call a monster, found the flawless antidote to his desolating loneliness; and he was able to hold it for an instant. You see, before I stared into the tragic eyes of my primordial beloved, I only knew of love and happiness as two dourly chosen arrangements of lifeless letters. Perhaps, ever since I lost them for the second and final time, I have been looking for the eyes of my beloved, which contained my life within them, and which I briefly found in their purest and most perfect expression, in Nene.

But before Nene, there was Melusin. Melusin the fennekin. I chose his name (that's right, _his_ name) in what I thought of as a brilliantly sardonic exercise of my refined intellect. In reality, at least as far as I can discern, I was practically blind, dense, and outright stupid. But I cannot deny that my choice was in one way or another moved by my entrails being touched by boundless destiny (can a condemned demon allow himself a mawkish second?). And even now, every time I whisper that word beginning with M to myself, my entrails revolt.

Intrinsically, a four-legged beast; my beauty bathed in fur of morning sun. If he stood still or if he moved, his chin was always up. When I looked at him, nine times out of ten his semblance would show the same refined panache. My Melusin was a stoic dandy in light, a restless rebel in darkness, and yet his warm presence remained the same at all times. His incandescent intensity would burst especially through his ears made out of natural chenille, of the softest and plushiest kind, where I would rest my yearning face, and then it would be infinitely easier to ignore everything except our embrace.

It was a lucid night of spring, on the seventh floor of the hotel, when a look into Melusin's eyes, tender, and vulnerable, gave me the courage to acknowledge my throbbing desire for love. For anyone who can't seem to grasp the idea of its existence within my viscera, I compel you to find a pair of eyes like Melusin's—I wholeheartedly hope you ever find yourself so lucky—and stare deeply into them. If you somehow manage such an encounter, I demand that you call upon me and confront me, and stare right into my evasive and ineffectual eyes, in whatever form they take, and then tell me, right to my face, that you still don't understand.

Seven floors filled with dimly lit hallways of labyrinthine structure and a halfhearted baroque design, served amiably, albeit perhaps reluctantly as our sandbox, boundless in time and space, and filled with perpetually pervasive ears and eyes. The taste of their judgment was beyond vile, with a mossy thickness that would hit the five senses all at once, leaving an irredeemable mold within my mouth and throat which often lingered until weakening despair would strike me bedridden for days. It was inconceivable to their insensitive minds that an organism other than the one within me could bring a smile to my face. And so Melusin was to them a strange aberration, simply for earning my affection, which was beforehand thought of as nonexistent. From the moment he arrived to me a nefarious impression of our friendship was formed within the collective unconscious of the hotel. And so it didn't come as a surprise that they wanted to end my happiness as soon as I obtained it; my mother's premature wraith always loomed over every innocent contact I made with my beloved.

The first tragedy came by on a cold night of winter, on the rooftop of our castle, when my mother misunderstood our brotherly embrace—gazes turned at the moon, condensed breathing joined as a single cloud of humid numbness—as a more lickerish approach. She sent Melusin away, and with him left the autonomy that I had just decided to claim. She also took with him any sort of esteem, empathy—certainly not love, because there wasn't any—which I had for her. From then on, inside me there was a void in which spite, hate, and an uncontrollable source of contrarianism that tormented her until the day she died, reveled and slithered, and manifested at will. If the first time I lost Melusin is a sole burning candle, then the second time could only be a violent forest fire destined to end in death. And I would gladly die for a match on my unholy hand.


	2. 3

3

Like many others, my mother thought of my apparent behavior as a transient perversion, which could be quelled entirely by replacing it with another type of sensualist exercise. Enter superlative daughter of covert deviancy, Kitty, to whom I am, and will always be, eternally thankful, solely for giving me the courage to act upon the only wishes sojourning in the deepest corners of my heart. To any other sack of viscera with a penchant for externalizing the dull and derivative desires developed by their simple minds, which they seem to be inherently unable to contain within themselves, Kitty might have been the ultimate vessel, the conclusion of their farthest fantasies. She was easy to excite, easier to divert, and possessed the wondrous ability to enter and remain in a dormant state, quiet and stoic, whenever one became tired of her antics, courtesy of her easily exploitable codependency. She would have been a partially adequate simulation to satisfy my distinct inclinations, if it hadn't been for her indecisive proportions: her core, hips, flat belly and lean torso, were elegantly arranged, exquisitely hirsute, and almost enticing to my peculiar taste. Her arms, thin and easy to handle, preferably by the wrist, or just above the elbow, and her hands, delightfully diminutive, to die laughing for. As a bizarre juxtaposition, her big breasts and filled thighs dangled from her figure, giving her the fraudulent semblance of a sober human woman, which killed her allure in my eyes. Her skin turned white as a blissful death when touched by the sun, and raw pink it remained while indoors. Her efforts were futile, regardless of how hard she tried, she couldn't conceal the wickedness and immaturity pouring out of her perpetual smile. Any lapse in concentration would uncover her protruding fangs, which she fervently tried to hide, and which, as those witch doctors of the mind would love to tell you, were an analogue for her wanting to keep her corrupted insides, drooling wretchedness and smut, a secret. Still, such a vigorous specimen was highly coveted by male suitors who proudly considered themselves hunters.

It was obvious to anyone with a capacity for reason why I had been chosen by her, and before I write a few words detailing my objective attractiveness, I would first like to mention that I have no positive regard for it within myself, as it has been the root of unnecessary burdens throughout my journey. Imagine a pale young man, tall and lean, with a fragile frame and clear-cut features; an evasive pair of eyes which appear translucent when met; enviable eyelashes which women can only emulate with strenuous endeavor; and a very expensive styling of an ideally dense, deep dark hair. Always dressed in skin-gripping shades of gray and black, never without a formal overcoat and a scarf masterfully laced around my neck. And yet, a distinct masculine air still emanates from me, perhaps born out of a strengthening self-hatred. Access to hotel-owner money and orphan sympathy were key embellishing (aggravating) factors. At this state, I was the reluctant prize to be obtained by the alpha female of a group, which in this case happened to be Kitty. I had no motivation to stop her from claiming me as her propriety. Her capricious act of 'lively girl very much in love' irritated me. It was nothing I hadn't seen already a million times on a screen; her behavior was the copy of an idealized set of characteristics orchestrated by male libido, and she played it shamelessly and with careless abandon. Slowly and gradually, and painfully, I resigned to a future without Melusin, who died when I was seventeen years old and about to meet Nene.

Years before I met my true love, who was not my first love, during Kitty's rule, I spent some time at a hospital being treated for a deficiency in my defense system. Kitty visited me regularly, and it was during this time that in my vulnerable state I revealed to her some of the darkest secrets previously hiding only on the back of my mind, which were met with a worryingly enthusiastic surprise and eagerness characteristic of deviants like her. Dear reader, of whom I dare to guess, with a good deal of certainty (you are reading this, after all), has a few prurient desires up your sleeve: if you ever meet someone willing, for some reason or another, to indulge your exceptional fantasies, your satisfaction will always be met with an equal dose of discomfort and alarm; the greater the deviancy, the greater the danger. When I was able to leave the hospital, I was horrified to discover that Kitty had erased any trace of my life before her. My room had been first ransacked and then turned into something completely alien to my eyes, something which could only bring sadness and bile out of me. My clothes as well as the rest of my possessions had been replaced by counterparts of her choosing and of her liking. She had destroyed the only constant in my life which I could enjoy, and for this I do remember that the moment I took notice of the damage she had done to me, with my hand, I compacted her right cheek through her molars which, hollow and dismal, were from then on my attack point of choice. To make up for her cavalier transgression, which I was thoroughly committed on not leaving out of even our briefest conversations, she promised to gift me with the most appropriate outlet for my incessant desires that could be produced at that point of our lives. Snatching an unsuspecting creature and submitting it to our treatment seemed far too evil and complex for her—it definitely was for me. And it was a rather pleasant surprise that even with her wickedness she was not willing to go that far. However it was never a real choice, as Kitty was well aware of mindsets like mine, and of the circles on which they moved.

A summer day in the afternoon the two of us went into a convenience store which, coincidentally (or not), was located right in front of a school. A place where, at the right age, disinterested little deviants like myself see their illusion of innocence displaced by their true nature, whatever that might turn out to be, and however that might be achieved. There was a murky door at the back of the store, which by itself radiated a malignant aura. It seemed to mute our spirits and accentuate our shame. Past it was a narrow hallway with the floor made out of broken patches of concrete, and walls painted of a lifeless orange. Past the hallway there was another store, for some unknown reason, selling the same mundane products as the one in the front; I never learned why it was there. But this second store was much more poorly lit, and the general atmosphere was shrouded in a purulent silence that made me think of only one word: illegal. Perhaps it was just a mindless peculiarity, excepting what occupied the second floor, of course, but it felt peculiarly wrong. I felt a different kind of guilt for being there, much different from the guilt I felt for knowing what I was about to do, which was engulfed in an overriding sense of excitement. Hiding on a corner, behind a wall, a set of stairs disarmed me and silently persuaded me to leave, at the same time it seduced me and invited me upstairs. I went up without caring for what was on the second floor, I felt nothing at that point. Kitty went in before me, and once she was upstairs she knocked on the first door she encountered. She opened it without waiting for a response, and once she took a peek inside she told me to go in. Inside was what was ostensibly a human woman covered in white fur all around her, whom I visited more times after that first time. She was on the floor, laid upon a circular rug of many colors. I didn't know were her skin began, or what pieces of her and the fur actually constituted part of her. The sight of her overwhelmed me, my eyes wanted to respond in more than one way, pleasure was beyond what I wanted, and yet, I knew there was nothing else for me. She was a rotund woman, and so striking, and so peculiar—that she was indeed a hybrid spawn of some kind did cross my mind—and in my confounded state I can ascertain I reached a point of lucidity that I don't think I have achieved ever since. I could have left, and let the thought of Melusin, and of anyone carrying eyes like his, die before he actually did, and I would continue living without a part of me I thought was intrinsic to my essence. This woman was completely desensitized by my presence, it's a real possibility that she was enjoying the external sight of my internal struggle. The position of her body revealed her intention, then she opened her mouth and showed me with her protruding cuspids at display that her appearance wasn't a gimmick, or at least, it wasn't a cheap one. I reached over and knelt right next to her, and stroked her fur. Beforehand I almost pitied her, almost as much as I pitied myself. Afterwards it was just her and I. With Kitty, I did have some contact, but I didn't count that as my first consummation, it wasn't real, or complete. It was mere curiosity and indulgence, I explored her surface to find out if I could use any part of her to sublimate my agony, but I came up with nothing. With her it was always the same numbness and the same smell, a mixture of saliva and bubblegum. I didn't mind paying for Elpis every time I visited her on that second floor, in fact the money helped me ignore her human side and concentrate on her other-worldliness, which, from then on, I continued to seek. The world had opened up for me. You see, I was no longer afraid to stare into the eyes of my beloved, and then more than ever before I was eager to find them.

Kitty didn't fail to notice that all the attention I used to give her had been transferred solely to Elpis, and with all of the spite that had consumed her long before I met her, she became a villain, resolute on completing her destruction of my self. I thought she had changed, she had led me to Elpis and yet she couldn't deal with the envy burning her insides. She told my mother about my endeavors on top of the store, in front of the school; our relationship had soured and gone completely cold by then, when Kitty betrayed me. As a person with influence (money), my mother had no trouble persuading the authorities to miraculously recover their sight which was once blind, and then they dastardly took my Elpis away, to who knows where. Before I ran away, with cold sweat running downwards through my back, having successfully avoided the presence of my mother after she learned of my activities, I confronted Kitty with the intention of disrupting her molars once more, perhaps once and for all. Sadly I was thwarted by the presence of another. A brutish trainer in possession of a furfrou, just like the type Kitty devilishly loved so much. And they were in love, he would protect her at all costs, because he hadn't learned of her corrupted perversion, and she hadn't gotten tired of his boring simplicity. I tried to ignored him, what had happened pertained only to Kitty and I. But the brute didn't see it that way. He took the air out of me with his fist, my breath came out along with my fiendish rage, which then placed itself upon them, and stayed with them, silently tormenting them until the untimely demise of their wicked souls just a year later (joint beheading by sunroof malfunction). After they left, I went to the lobby and asked the cretin manager to hand me some money from the counter. It took some effort, and a masterful display of my unadulterated rage varnished with a dose of theatricality. It was his job to ensure that the guests were not disturbed after all, not mine. And I had to act fast, before my mother learned of my whereabouts, right on the cold mouth of my dead father's legacy. I left carrying nothing with me except for the money.


	3. 4

4

It seemed particularly funny, at least to my silent self. Poetic in a way, how I went from one hotel—for me, at least until then, the only hotel in existence—to another. Lumiose was big enough in order for me to achieve a sort of social invisibility, however, the money I took from my parents was consumed by the city with dehumanizing speed. My economical situation was not helped but instead hindered by my first attempt as a free soul fresh out of the abyss to find my beloved. A few nights scouting the less-than-fine establishments banished to the outer outskirts of the city, with their neon-engulfed walls varnished with filthy crumbs of seedy melancholy, resulted in an expectant walk to a two-story house in a middle-class neighborhood, in the middle of the night, while cold sweat vaporized on my seething skin. Imagine the turbines of a plane turning off in the middle of a flight, and a consequent fall from the starry sky, caressing the clouds as it once headed for paradise, now into a devastating collision with the merciless sea. My zest fell lower than the ground, although the devastating contact could only be heard, loudly, in my mind. I knew I had been played, when a morbidly obese woman led me from the living room of a depressing household, through some heavy curtains with some abstract embroidery, into a bedroom containing a small miltank, with its chubby appendages, secretory or otherwise, visibly hardened by the superficial grease inhabiting on its carnation skin ever since the pokemon's owners had been thoughtless, unsanitary idiots—perhaps, all of their life. A look and a smell sufficed to accept my resignation to continue my search elsewhere, however, as soon as I voiced my desire to leave without making use of any of their services, a brick-shaped man with the same face as the rotund woman, and twice her height, blocked my way and demanded remuneration for, if nothing else, their time.

There was no way I could have known then, that my passion was not unique. I was aware it wasn't a singular phenomenon, with which I had been tainted. But the level of solicitude that my fellow beguiled researchers displayed was at first unfathomable in its monstrous grandiosity. It brought forth different reactions out of what my consciousness could disclose, all of them hyperbolic. I marveled and rejoiced at the prospect of a glorious indulgence, like that in which my many precursors with the same condition as myself had experienced, for as long as their eagerness to put their overflowing dreams into practice had allowed them. I was also astonished and enthralled in a morbidly enticing way, when I discovered exactly how they managed to achieve their intimate connections. There was a farm outside Lumiose, that functioned as a pokemon day care center during a certain time in a 24-hour cycle. I'm not certain if it ever functioned as an actual farm, whatever that entails, and I didn't have the time nor the motivation to ever find out. But during the night, when it was operated by its owner, or at least overseen by him or her or them or it; during the night, princes and princesses of many shapes and sizes descended from an enchanted castle in the sky, and with their pure and merciful spirits full of joy and love, graced the lowly peasants and their feet tied to the ground with merry dances under the cover of darkness and the pale moon above, and together they celebrated until their spirits could give no more and their breaths were aching to return to their empty lungs. The owner of the farm was supposedly a trainer who made it far enough in his career to afford buying the elderly couple who previously owned the day care out, and then he began a career on the Trainer PR Videos on Lumiose which then branched into the film industry, or, he didn't make it far enough at all on his training and became wealthy from his endeavors in the Lumiose film industry. Either way, the owner was wealthy enough to keep a place like that running indiscriminately, without a single interruption, and with a wide array of choices. As a refined individual with a taste for the basic things in life, from the first time I visited the farm I took an instant liking to an adorable brown creature with dull black eyes which seemed dead and ready to be infused with my life. Her ears, as long and luscious as her ability to tempt every fiber of my carnality, reached all the way to her knees while her figure in full barely reached my navel. Her ears ended, just like in her wrists, her feet, and eye-lashes, in an agglomeration of cream-colored fur which felt more like fresh and tender wool from a mareep. It gave her form more nuance, and added a more carefree and juvenile side to my tactile experience, as opposed to the rest of her body covered brown fur, more formal and sober, no less enjoyable, simply different with just a movement of my hand; and therefore a richer experience altogether, it was to enjoy her. As if preparing me for my future encounter with Nene, she stood in two legs, but, apart from her ears simulating two twin-tails falling from either side of her head, the similarities ended there. Unlike Nene, her frame was filled specially on her thighs, which along with her perky rear, simulated perfectly the ideal frame of a svelte yet abundantly voluptuous woman. However, she was enhanced by her fur and a resilient collection of it right above her rear, which made up her tail, and so she—lopunny—was a coveted agent which represented something and another at the same time.

I came back to her a couple of times, but the general atmosphere on the rustic premises was not entirely of my liking. Too crowded, more so than what I was used to at the mausoleum, where nothing happened with Melusin. In the hotel there was always a cloistered sense of seclusion that would always be invaded and destroyed by prying bodies, but in the farm I couldn't even get a simple time before an interruption: the rest of the beguiled researchers had already had the opportunity to lose all their inhibitions, some of them had even developed certain tastes which required company, and the air seemed to be polluted with their frantic exhalations regardless of where they were. A couple other times I managed to lure the loppuny to the woods located close to the farm, but she was always coy about it, remained nervous throughout, and I couldn't make her stay away from the farm for too long. And the last time I saw her, when I unsuccessfully tried to convince her to leave her communal life and be with me, she reminded me that intrinsically I was alone and incapable of making a real connection, and she also reminded me that intrinsically she could never be more than a toy to be passed around among the rest of the beguiled.

My decision to stop visiting the farm was, as I convinced myself on that moment, not dictated by my disillusion at the hands of the loppuny, although it was certain to me that I couldn't look her in her dead eyes once more. I had managed to spend most of my considerable funds, this by refusing to change my standards of living since I ran away from the five star hotel where my dead father was the owner. Yes, still, I had enough money to get myself a one-way ticket to the gentle, little town of Camphier, as well as a barely bearable and impenitently judgmental night on the diffident Hotel Camphier, all because, well, I had learned on the farm that there was a competing Day Care, with a real, proper Day Care service, located west of that stupid town. It was a despondent and melancholic trip and a pathetic attempt, that was somehow successful, in a way. I was aimless, without a sight of my beloved, any beloved, not even in the tired eye of my mind. It was absurdly fortuitous, how the next day I got up from the punishing pile of rocks the people at the hotel managed to pass off as a bed, and I went for a walk, out of the town, just to be near to what I thought of as an unobtainable destination, like all the other destinations I had seen as unobtainable to myself before I found Melusin. The tiny marble house was laid upon the vast Kalos landscape, like the head of an innocent child taking a peek above the ground, wearing a brown hat that could be both pitied and fawned on. It had a weak fence that could only contain tame creatures, but, as everyone knew, it only served to contain such creatures. Outside an old, sedated woman raised her hands and with one of them she waved at me as she gave me a smile, which I returned with a shamelessly sanitized nod of the head, as if I could be considered a part of that innocent picture. Not sensing the tainted air from the farm which still moved around me like an invisible prison I couldn't keep out of my thoughts, this charming lady called to me and then asked me with a soft candied voice if I was looking for the Day Care. I said I was not, I was just passing by, but refused to leave after her cordial dismissal and hoped with the remains of my will that she wouldn't end our exchange, simply to stand near the place for a little longer. Not only did she indulge my silent wish, she uttered a few sentences that made me want to burst out into laughter, however, I tried with my instantly revitalized will to contain myself and remain earnest, and I succeeded. She said they needed an assistant. Afterwards she saw my countenance change, and I was certain then that this was what convinced her to hire me. Perhaps she thought I loved pokemon—in a way I did. She took me inside and to the yard, where many little torchic and ditto and chespin laid and played like the best of friends. I stumbled my way verbally as she informally interviewed me for the job, whereas when I answered coherent sentences these always communicated a wrong answer. But she didn't seem to mind, after all, eloquence was not needed in lovely job like that. Her first question was if I was interested, and it was the only one that mattered; what followed I cannot even remember. Working there allowed me to live without changing my lifestyle too much, and, more importantly, without having to walk back to my mother begging for money. I had a lovely, lovely, lovely time working at the Day Care, my bosses were benevolent and brief, in accordance to their advanced age. Their able-bodied, more conscious daughter was barely seen on the place. So it was just me, and I was quite good at it. It seemed at the time I had found my calling, and that seemed like an existence I would've been able to continue.

Now that I know all that ensued in full I cannot say I would have preferred to have remained at the Day Care, ignorant of all the drama that would end up derailing my life and then destroying it completely; and I cannot say I would've been able to stop it either way, because, as I learned later, everything was out to get me. One day a jolly trainer came in, with his naive face and his sadly unoriginal dreams. He handed me two pokeballs and then left with his smile intact. Outside, I opened one and wasn't surprised at all when a pink mass with the same face like that of its trainer began undulating on the ground. The arrant shock came about when I opened the second pokeball, and when the pokemon previously inside it finished condensing before me it still took me some considerable moments to realize his identity. He had retained all of his refined verve, his formal yet passionate spirit had remained exactly the same, his chin was still always up. I could see it in his semblance when he walked, when he looked at me, with the same look of amazement on his face. And then he lost his sober flair, and then he ran up to me, and then he wrapped me in an effusive hug which enfolded me whole in an aura of warmth, and the yearning for a love I hadn't felt since I'd lost him for the first time. It was Melusin, and when I understood what was happening I broke down on his embrace, and tears did flow out of my eyes, after all I had just finished comprehending, after having thought him lost forever, that I had my dearly beloved right in front of me. Our hug was soothing and heartfelt at first, and then it turned lively and exploratory, and when I felt his palpitating vessels covered in smooth and lustrous yellow hair, becoming kinetically charged from the incessant pace of my hands through his shape, resulting in the quite perceptible increase of the temperature around us, brought about by Melusin's unconscious stimulation of his intrinsic ardency, my loins demanded that I yielded full control of my psyche to the overwhelming desire which then reached my brain. And then like never before were the tools with which I could reach and caress more desperate to be satisfied, and then my heightened senses delighted in the familiarity of which I had dreamed every night beforehand, as well as the stimulating novelty of discovering the sensual extent of his evolved form. Substantially more voluminous, now my beloved stood in two legs, and his proportions had become compellingly curvaceous, and his fur was now longer and more frolicsome. His unconscious and inarticulate cries—the voice of my life's purpose—exposed his willingness to indulge the use of my teeth to taste his tenderness, and then he, as I put a transient stop to my rampant performance, if only to elevate its capacity by unleashing my tangible fervor from its black denim shackles, with his barely conscious power increased the temperature around us once more, to the point where I, during a particularly cold day in the middle of fall, began to sweat. Then I led his sweetly devoted hand towards the pinnacle of my enjoyment, and stared at his solemn obedience, which waited for my resumption, and proceeded, with all the power that I could muster consciously with my mind, to create as palpable a memory as I could. That moment was supposed to sojourn warmly at the forefront of my mind from then on. Only then, when it was imprinted in the most objective part of my being, would I have continued my performance. There it stopped, in an unquestionable position, witnessed by my mother, who manifested herself right before me, as if she had come out of my most horrible nightmare, carrying an unspeakable expression, on her face which was the perfect mask to hide the real demon of her wrath adulterating the air behind her. From her mouth with her hyper extended jaw came out like the deafening horn of discord signaling my demise, screams which in my state couldn't be discerned by my senses, as she grabbed my wrist, carving the extravagant shape of her long fingernails on my skin, indiscriminately…

I am overcome by a sudden urge to halt my tale. Fellow beguiled, please indulge my insipid chapter of despair, which seems to strike me, with all of its thick cruelty, once every fortnight, and allow me to drop the thinly veiled facade to speak directly to you. If my mother's sudden appearance seems singularly unbelievable to you at this moment, where I particularly hope I have your undivided attention, then imagine how I felt at seeing her incensed face so close to my eyes, during that moment, when a reason for such an outcome was the last thing my mind was trying to grasp. If I was thinking of anything then, it was that my conspicuously capricious creators had decided to collect the wicked boon of what they had gifted me at birth, in the form of my fiendish mother elevated from the depths of hell itself. Such an unfortunate fate should become more believable when I mention the real reason as to why the lying corpses full of rotten life, which granted them motion, had hired me to help out at the Day Care in the first place. The seemingly sweet and sugary old lady who had offered me the job happened to be a distant relative of my mother, whom I had never met or heard of before, to my capricious recollection. And this old lady along with her husband, were awfully aware of my identity, as well as of my activities on the premises, and they were the ones who called my mother. And then she came. And then she dragged me out of the Day Care as I was still trying to pull my pants up, crying to her, trying to get her to release her lock on my arm. It was only after we were well on the middle of the street that I mustered enough courage to break free and stand my ground. However, it didn't work. She approached with relentless steps and then raised her naked hand to the skies, from where she gathered the self-righteous power of her wrath incarnate, which she then brought forth with full force on the right side of my face. Afterwards, as my skin implored, throbbing, for deliverance in crimson red, she shouted eleven times the same thing she shouted as she had dragged me out of the Day Care, to my greater despair: "Another girl will correct this!" Half an hour later my mother was dead. I would've liked nothing more than to gloat with pen and paper as well as with my voice, that I was the agent behind her last breath on this earth. Sadly, I didn't have the unique pleasure. Instead, the very exasperated eating of an opportunely ripe berry, spontaneously transfigured into the envoy of my revenge by blocking aerial and solid traffic on her upper threshold, accomplished the arduous job. Before I ran away a second time, from a second town, I went back to the Day Care owned by the living vestiges, during the night, solely intending to carve my initials on the white little fence, where they sojourn to this day: S. S.


	4. 5

5

After such a desolating desertion, all that was left for this beguiled researcher was for one last burst of energy to grace his body. Just enough energy to help me exorcise out of my mind one of the myriads of ways in which I thought of ending the conundrum of it all. I can sense that some of you, who have mustered the courage to carry on with this devilish exercise, wish I had gone through with my self-destruction (the minority, I'm sure); wish that I had climbed all the way to the top of the Lumiose Tower, and, holding with my right hand the space where from within my forlorn heart cried inconsolably, had shouted the names of my beloved one last time before plunging to my death. If that's the case, then I truly pity you once more, you, self-righteous straw reveling in fraudulence. But as the rest of you, deranged brothers and sisters, could tell you if they ever dared to leave their murky hideouts in the dark, my disappearance wouldn't have made a single difference in the purulent order of everything that breathes. Evil intentions and a desire to harm are not in our bodily modes of expression, neither in our innate, ambivalent systems, which we, unlike the rest of you hypocrites, must carry shamefully on our backs.

Anywise, after my dearly departed mother failed to swallow a deliciously dense berry, and died, and the numbed and maimed and so eagerly thwarted sense of my liberty suddenly manifested and gave my loins a light tap, and made them glisten, I found myself utterly helpless and with no possibilities of survival in my sight or in my thought. Neither the tantalizing notion of another encounter with my beloved—any beloved—seemed reasonable enough to find itself within my reach, as I knew my probabilities of achieving such a delightful encounter had greatly diminished. I had lost access to both day care facilities, to any of the hotels my parents used to own, and Melusin was by then long gone, far away, and soon to perish.

Up to this point, I had been making the conscious choice of omitting the lackluster instance of my mother's remarriage, and please let me add that I think of adding such information as pointless, and of the information itself as completely separate from what I preferably see as my lore. However, from this point on, and only because of how unfortunately ingrained this development is to the development of my own story, as it was, perhaps, crucial to my prodigious encounter with Nene, the ignorance of this event did use to be, but nevermore.

During her last years, by then long without my father, my widow of a mother married a stern and quiet man whose favorite activity was to pretend to be a statue, to whom I was capitally an uncomfortable bug dangling from his, speculatively speaking, hairy bottom. It was informed to me, when I tried to take control of all the proprieties I thought had become rightfully mine after the passing of the previous owners, that what was indeed once to be mine, had instead been surreptitiously seized by this unsettling figure which permeated ubiquitously all the places I dared not to visit any longer. I had become homeless, at the same time I had found myself forcefully embroiled with a cold step-father, with whom I never shared a single word. However, since my name was forever entangled with that of the poisoned franchise he then owned, and seeing as, apparently, even with all of his newly-obtained power, of which I personally thought he would've not waited to make use, just like his newly-obtained bachelor status, alas, he was not able to get rid of me; or perhaps, he thought it best not to do so; he thought it would be best to keep me docile, entertained, and quiet. What he arranged to achieve this, which is still in play to this day, was establish a weekly remuneration for my silence, which would satisfy the least capricious of my needs without generating a visible wound on his mammonish pride; and a relocation.

After what happened, all of which passed me by fleetingly, and then left without leaving in my inattentive mind an adequate understanding of the now hazy incidents, which I therefore can't recollect vividly enough bar a few transient vignettes for which I did feel abnormally present, and which I have already transcribed, it was quietly arranged for me to be sent to a small farm outside Couriway Town, to live with my step-father's gardener and his family. Not only was I unable to comprehend the entirety of the situation, even as it was enfolding before my dreary eyes, I also couldn't simply begin to think about what the ramifications of it all were, or would be when a moment in the hold of a coherent mind suddenly decided to grace me transiently, in fact my brain was incapable of making any predictions or inferring any outcomes about my future, although, I must admit, my future was the last thing I was compelled to worry about. I cared less about what happened to my worthless body than where it would abandoned at any given moment. Therefore it felt rather appropriate, with the way I had become human waste, that I'd go from living in a five star hotel on the south west of Lumiose, where I was the owner's son, to a wooden box on the forgotten outskirts of the region, which I had thought, before I realized what kind of angelic creatures roamed such desolate places, really was a dumping ground where nobody knew who anybody was. That included me, and for that and only that I was thoroughly pleased. As far as the three people there were concerned, I was a student of the behavioral patterns of the regional pokemon, and I had graciously accepted an invitation to stay with that family. An invitation which hadn't been made by them but by my elusive step-father, although they didn't have the power to refuse any of his demands seeing as their livelihood depended solely on him. The farm itself was owned by my step-father, in fact.

A rather tall woman wearing a simple white summer dress, and a straw sun hat, welcomed me at the Couriway station after I was ejected from the City's rear like any unwanted waste. When I encountered her she was asking everyone who came out of the train if they were me, and when she first said my name, as she grabbed me brazenly by the shoulder, I reacted like a vegetative mass with no life or motion, from the sudden surprise, which awoke me from the deep reverie on which my mind had been pleasantly cruising for the entirety of the morning beforehand. My consequent reaction, and the knowledge that instantly arrived to me of what a horrible first impression that had been, put me in a state of discomfort and hyper-awareness which lasted for the rest day, and which made the consequent interactions with the family harder to experience.

On the walk to the farm it became noticeable to me, that because of the rural life she had led, this woman was incapable of feeling embarrassment, albeit she had a nice semblance and quite a sympathizing demeanor to make up for her unconscious insolence, so, even if she didn't eliminate my unease, speaking with her was remarkably easy. She had no trouble with both the admission of her ignorance concerning my supposed areas of expertise from the City, or the blatant expression of her admiration towards everything involving the more enlightened places of the region, all superciliously located far away from her. She also had no trouble disclosing the dull and uneventful life she led in the plains. I correctly deduced that she spent a sizable amount of her uneventful time tending to her deeply black yet somehow glistening straight hair, which swung from her head to her back always with alive motion. It accentuated her youthful air, and yet I sensed she could've been my mother, albeit if that were the case she would've been a teenage mother, perhaps. Of all the things in the farm, other than the preternatural creatures which deserve better than being compared with the rest of the filth, she seemed the most alive one of all, perhaps the only one really alive, and it must be noted that even I, completely disinterested in her, was able to notice this.

When we arrived at the place my heart had already sunk deep into an anxious despair, from having seen what a dour and inhospitable land was to serve as my home for an undetermined period of time. Before I set foot inside the derelict two-story house painted of a soulless white which had long crumbled in pieces and deteriorated, leaving the murky wood hiding beneath naked, I had already decided that I'd leave that place as soon as the shadow of an opportunity appeared in my sight. Outside the house a man with a scruffy beard, wearing a red flannel shirt and jeans, voluntarily giving in to the ever-present, invisible chains of his respective stereotyping, sat on a wooden stool and fashioned a piece of wood into a flute with the help of his knife. He stood up upon us reaching him, and with visible mortification on his face he said less than ten words to welcome me into his house. He then passed the demonstrative duties to his wife, the charismatic woman, who was the complete opposite of him; of him, whose stern presence always brought forth palpable discomfort, which grew in intensity the closer his body got to mine. Once we were inside the house the woman introduced me to her daughter, a cold and completely silent girl, who kept staring at me from the top of the stairs placed right in front of the front door. She had her hair on pigtails and kept sticking her finger into her mouth, even though she was seemingly a seasoned teenager. In hindsight she was only two years younger than I, but hadn't lived a single year as a proper human being.

On the living room there was an old gray sofa in front of a tv resting on an unpainted nightstand. Regarding the kitchen, they, or most likely just she, had visibly and obviously tried so hard to make it look like it didn't belong to an impoverished group of people who couldn't allow themselves to choose its contents. All the things in there had to be handled with the utmost care simply to stop them from falling apart in your hands. Next to the door there was a foreign herdier, which I failed to notice when I first entered, hopeless, and condemned to continue living, laid on the ground like a pile of dirty rags. The thing was barely breathing, and it didn't dare to even look at me once. It represented the whole place perfectly well, it demonstrated to me how I was already dead and yet I still needed to die to make it official. For a moment full of hellish suffering there I really felt like being alive was the worst kind of punishment I could receive. As the woman, whose name was Claire, paraded her performance around the house, embellishing every single ramshackle corner of the building with jarring gusto, I was ready to die. It is very important to me that I be able to communicate correctly my despondent, dismally hollow state at the time when I met Nene. When Claire softly ordered her daughter to step aside, so that she and I could head upstairs, where presumably one from a reasonable array of windows could've been used to escape more than one plane of existence, and then Claire blatantly and unashamedly opened her daughter's room, to the latter's first audible protests filled with all the embarrassment her mother couldn't process, there Nene appeared for my eyes, and like the providential contact of the most revitalizing drop of clear blue water with the tortured tongue of the dehydrated body decayed by the constant sun of a ghoul holding nothing within him, the sight of her filled me with new life and reanimated my whole existence, physically and spiritually. All of the sudden my long gone expectations came back to me and filled my mind of distorted paintings of many vibrant colors, and then the reanimating spark traveled all through my body and stopped at the height of my loins, and it spoke to me, telling me once more, with pride, of my life's purpose, as Nene laid her nimble belly on a twin-size bed, and held her head with her diminutive hands, from the chin, while resting her elbows on the bed, as she stared boringly at the wall in front of her. Oh, what a life awaited her.


	5. 6

6

If I were to remove Nene from the situation in which I found myself at the farm, I would be forced to confront the unbearable living nightmare I would have experienced while stationed there. I recognize, there is not one scenario without her that would end with me adapting to such a dour fate. Sadly, I can only state this with the faulty degree of certainty which I possess, with which the world has left me after my pathetic attempt to escape with her: It allows me to see nothing but dull gray, inescapable nothingness. My only consolation is safe, however, knowing that she is forever and always part of me, now.

But enough of the present tense, because in the past, when I did find myself at that farm, Nene was there.

And with the first sight of her all of my being was transformed, with a joyful death and an instant revivification, and then, as I stared at her, unconscious to the woman's mundane remarks, I was boundless, alone in a world that was finally quiet. Quiet and peaceful, like my insides. Right on that soothing moment I could taste her silence, I could feel it gently caressing my entrails, with the virtuous hands of an eternal goddess, who had witnessed my silent suffering from her preternatural seat hidden among the clouds. She had manifested in flesh the conclusion of my cognizance, and had led it to my very eyes, as a tender limber gift. There in front of me laid Nekane the kirlia, as the woman named Claire casually remarked, ignorant of her mystical presence, and the otherworldly powers she possessed, by which she could've been killed if my beloved so desired.

Even if the place where my body was located was full of disrupting noise, prying eyes with venomous minds behind them, an overall debilitating ambience and desolate discomfort, any sensation was overwhelmed by the numbing bliss of Nene's closeness. In the world, full of nuance and gluttonous extremism, all that was left for me to dread were the interruptions of our connection, hers and mine, whether physical or psychic in nature, nothing else mattered. Anything else truly didn't matter, for I could abandon the entirety of my entity to the mere thought of her. Sweet Nene was from my first day as a guest on that wonderful house smitten with me. Although, perhaps smitten isn't the utmost appropriate word to describe the nature of her introductory interactions with me. At that stage, only purely innocent contacts were made between us, therefore, attached, would better explain the way she conducted herself around me. Morning hugs, opportunistic pats on the head; the anodyne grazing of our shoulders, the cotton-esque weight of her head on my deltoid, the ticklish skimming of her hair on my neck as we watched tv from the sofa, constituted some of our interactions during the day, which, during the night, compelled me to grab on to my pillow with rigid fingers full of yearning. So much blissful yearning, followed by joyful pain, which still exhausted my spirit, when in the dark of night, as the moon was placed right above me, my mood oscillated from frantic execution to mute, exhaling tranquility, and in my thoughts there was no space for anything other than her, as dictated by my most alive self.

It must have been ordained, either by her or by someone else of her supernal kin, that at the time of our encounter nobody paid even the briefest moment of attention to her. The only explanation I could produce is that, as she waited for my eventual arrival with prescient expectation, my morose maiden may have placed a spell which hid her exquisite nature from everyone around her. Why else would they have been so eager to ignore her—the conglomeration of unalloyed delight—who was right there in front of them?

Even so it was rather clear, why the patriarch in turn was blind to her charm. He simply didn't possess the necessary mental capacity to comprehend what laid before his eyes. His name was Val, and he was a taciturn fellow with a restrained rage that seemed pervasive on the premises, and was perhaps inherent to his core. Often he disparaged the women of the house, including my Nene, with spontaneously combustive splurges of his volatile temper. I'm not aware if his abusive nature was ever exercised in a way other than verbal, but an explosive lash of his considerable physicality always loomed imminently during his wrathful tantrums, which could be fueled by a wide array of subjects, such as, but not limited to: food, clothes, drinks, space, weather, money, the perceived lack of concern from those around him about matters that became particularly requisite during a capricious second, after which he would forget the given matter entirely.

The woman Claire was much more amiable, she was carefree, cheerful, and cacophonous. But not even her loudness could hide the obvious wretchedness that her husband with his constant state of anger regularly spread through our atmosphere. I discovered her intemperate attraction towards me one night when she surreptitiously crawled into my bed, having embellished her features with the appropriate paint which made her usual face seem completely different; having also drenched herself in an intoxicant fragrance which made my carnality, touched by Nene's allure, consider her proposition, at least for a transient second. The next day, after I had softly rejected her, she took me aside and implored me to service her and her daughter in the way a dutiful father should service a wife and a daughter, respectively. As a nervous reply, I only mentioned that she already had a husband, and Annie, the daughter, already had a father, after which Claire became noticeably quieter and understated. I understood why she furtively sought to overthrow Val's turn as the man of the house, not just from their daily shouting contests devoid of restraint which seldom crowned a victor. Hilariously, whenever one of said matches was about to take place they would send Annie upstairs—they wouldn't ever bother about my silent presence—and would proceed to make their argument heard all over the surrounding woods, making their efforts to shield their daughter from their aural violence completely futile. Such was Val and Claire's awfully wedded life, courtesy of the unexpected arrival of their ineffectual daughter Annie.

During one particularly savage volume match, Claire took a brief pause to try and ward Annie and Nene off the premises, by suggesting that the three of us go swimming. At first it seemed to me that in her desperation she had made quite a naive suggestion, since we were nearing the most ruthless throbs of winter at the time. But once I put a halt to my otherwise incessant admiration of Nene, I managed to take notice of the glaring sunshine, and the almost completely neutralizing effect it had on the reigning tide, to the point where even I, with my general unwillingness to bare even my elbows, could stand outside and in front of the lake with only one simple layer covering my torso. Although, I must add, that the ease I felt when uncovering myself, came solely from Nene's presence assuaging the hurt of my spirit.

I treated our first outing together with particular care. I packed ripe berries and fresh milk, enough for the two of us, certainly for pragmatic reasons, but also as a futile attempt to show Annie the unwanted status of her presence. Of course the subtle gesture failed, and so her silent stare followed our backs, always from a timorously safe distance which she never dared to shorten. Even so, it was a pleasant day on the lake. I've chosen to use pleasant instead of another adjective, which would've detailed superior enjoyment, specifically because of Annie's looming presence—shrouded in the shade generated by the sequestering tall trees—which I couldn't keep away from my mind. When I bothered to acknowledge her disdained surveillance, a couple of times where the weight of her gaze became unbearable, she had her stupid fingers stuck in her mouth. If only she had stuck them in her eyes instead, quickly and with all of her strength, she would've done the world a favor.

When I first submerged into the glistening turquoise I wasn't able to discern if the water was cold or warm, and it was only after I came out, a few hours later, ready to leave, that I noticed my body trembling, with abundant chills, hoping to adjust to its normal temperature. I couldn't ever regret that day, instead I would let my body freeze and then rot at this very moment just to go back there, even for an instant.

As I stared at Nene, softly tearing through the water with the swaying of her body, from a static location, without missing a single second of her angelic white spree, with easy movements of my eyes, and tried to ignore the psychic imprint of the human girl's stare on the back of my head, and white dashes of blinding light danced in my eager eye-sight to the rhythm of the soft waves of fresh water, and all around us a layer of green, clearer and static, but still soothing, hid us from the rest of the world full of judgment and contrasted gently with the rest of the blue, above and below it, the unrevealed conductor of the joyous concert with which my body had been delighting ever since I met Nene, decided to change the tempo of its ecstatic melody, which subsequently crescendoed within me until a humid haze descended upon my surroundings and rendered me stagnant. With my mouth open, yet unable to move a voluntary muscle of my body, I channeled all of my efforts at my still-functioning eyes, and stared at my beloved as she paddled with an unbridled passion of a kind I had thought was impossible for such a frail figure to generate. And yet there she was, clearly trying to leave her fragility behind, with the otherwise ineffectual reach of her delicate arms, desperate for a new source of power to aid her in her fantastic escape, while the fervent desire poured out of her eyes, and my silent song began playing neutralizing notes that signaled the final stage of the piece, and with a single, imperceptible, underwater touch of the primordial instrument, the joyful song ended with the longest and most strident note I'd ever had the pleasure to hear. Then, after a refractory period, the elusive conductor of my orchestra relinquished control back to me, right when Nene approached me and with an inviting gesture asked me to play with her. I grabbed her by the hips and felt a wave of bliss travel upwards within me, but then I released her, when I felt the heaviest sentinel stare behind me. Inconspicuously, I turned around and saw Annie's unchanged semblance, and after a probing question regarding her overall mood, to which she answered by stating her general well-being, I deduced she knew nothing of what had happened, not a clue of what laid within us, Nene and I. I caressed her hair and resolved to see her go, and then she continued her aquatic dance, having completely understood the current impossibility of a more concrete connection between us, with Annie there.


	6. 7

7

It seems to me that the inability to remain pleased and satisfied after obtaining an object of desire, or simply after achieving a goal, is a burden that only humans must endure. It is especially noticeable when we compare ourselves to our most trusted companions, whose simple natures can generally be described, accurately so, by using only one word. But before anybody naively dares to suggest, that we could learn one or two things from their simply delicious way of life, which more often than not consists solely of eating and obeying, I would like to say that, no, we cannot learn anything from them, we can only observe. Why is this the case? Because we have never learned, and we never will. I'm sure that if the members of our species had only to be satisfied once most of our problems would go away, and I'm willing to concede that that would also happen in my given case. But, alas, 'if I could only see her again' unavoidably turns into 'if I could only be near her again' turns into 'if I could only touch her again,' and the desire keeps morphing and corrupting itself until only a glimmering distortion of its hardly innocent root remains, or it dies.

After some lovely time in her presence I found myself contemplating on this inevitability, predominantly after my attempts to share a delightful contact with Nene—a strictly physical contact, of prolonged duration—were frustrated by the hindering presence of the other occupants of the house, chiefly the daughter, Annie, with whom I was forced to share a room. It didn't take long for me to develop a committed hatred for the three members of the dysfunctional family, a hatred which stemmed from different roots on each case, perhaps, but the hate I felt for one was not greater than the hate I felt for another, in any compatible combination. In Annie's case it was quite simple, she wouldn't grant me a couple of inches to myself, neither a single moment without her intrusive eyes and the vacant space behind them. The hate towards Val was just as rational, and justified itself with a uniquely refreshing sense of justice, which likewise filled my loins with fire. Not only would he choose to include my sweet and innocent Nene, when irrationally admonishing his wife and daughter, but the heartless demon wouldn't allow her—her! Of whom he was unworthy of licking the soil she stepped on—to sleep inside the house, and so she was forced to stay on the equally ramshackle barn during the night, along with the other two irremediably mindless creatures which didn't seem to care about being eternally trapped in there more than they cared about relieving themselves on the ground beneath them. Claire, on the other hand, I hated simply for being there to witness my misery. I hated her for engendering such a hopelessly static daughter, and for choosing to marry such a sad specimen whose only given purpose consisted on instigating hate and fear in those around him.

Even with that kind of relentless restriction, perfectly exemplified by a pair of naked eyes incessantly following their unfortunate prey, which slowly and gradually burns, and becomes consumed by their perpetual psychic strike, I was able to take a hold of some fragments of freedom with my beloved. An especially esteemed occasion took place the day after yet another vicious fight between husband and wife, and was enabled with significant indulgence by my least disdained member of the family, Claire, whom I still hated abundantly.

Said verbal confrontation between Val and Claire, besides being orchestrated with the usual bitter notes filled with venom, directed by experience at the target's most vulnerable marrow, was particularly enlightening about a few details pertaining to my nebulous step-father. And, of course, perhaps said details were only peculiar because I didn't know anything substantial about him, because I didn't care to learn anything about him, nevertheless, my ears became alert when the lovers' quarrel touched on his subject. I can't recall how it happened, since their voices had become to my senses the same as the rest of the nugatory brown noise found on our habitat. Nevertheless I believe it was her, who said, We have nothing, I want something, you never wanted anything—or something like that—and then he replied, We have this place; after which he was rebuffed by her, who, after parrying his ineffective excuse by stating that they didn't own the place, and could be removed from it at any given moment if the actual owner of the land (you know who, I assume) so desired, proceeded to surrender the glamorous information, for which I then became present. As it turns out, Val's boss, my step-father, a man, an adult man, who had lungs that he utilized to breathe, oxygen, had been married six times, widowed half of that amount, and had fathered, in and out of wedlock, as many children as the total sum of weddings and funerals for which he had to pay in full. It was mainly because of the scandalous nature of the revelation that I not only paid attention to it, but kept it in my mind, unlike the rest of the words pointlessly spoken by those miserable humans. I should've known, then, that I'd end up crossing paths with one of his legitimate bastards at one point or another—although I would've never guessed the nature of the encounter—seeing as there were so many of them.

In the morning the general state of our spirits was like that of Claire's throat: sore, exhausted, and filled with pain which was aggravated by movement. After numerous attempts, Claire finally managed to wear me down, and compelled me to please her, when she appeared on the living room with her eyes closed and a wide, truly overjoyed smile on her pale face, and proposed a trip to the woods. She seemed jarringly upbeat, whilst a wicked trace of the harrowing fight she'd had with Val the day before remained fresh in the house. When she lifted her eye-lids and revealed her bloodshot eyes I couldn't help but become partially lucid, and quickly agreed to her proposition with the best disposition I could produce. Val was nowhere to be seen, Annie was there and would follow any body into a fire, with her fingers stuck in her mouth, so it was her, my bewitching beloved, Claire and I, who came out of the house.

We walked until only bright and lively green reigned all around us. The scenery from the journey, cute and beautiful, I assume, got lost on me. In my entranced state, I was sure my beloved had called an incantation upon me, right before we got out of the house. It was a specific spell which forbade me from taking my eyes away from the back of her head. When she released me from her angelic enchantment I found myself sitting on a red cloth, placed underneath a well-endowed tree. Once there, during the preliminary banter, I learned why Nene was allowed to roam freely and uninterrupted, so close to them to boot. In a past I'd rather not think about, she was captured, but not released, instead misplaced, perhaps abandoned. She lost one trainer and obtained another, to whom I'll only grant the human trait of carelessness, for having misplaced Nene's pokeball. Another party intervened, but after realizing that my beloved could no longer be coerced into disappearing momentarily, since her pokeball was lost, was forced to abandon her too, and so she was introduced into the care of that family on Couriway, a few years before I met her. After learning of this, and for some time after, letting go of the thought of other hands holding what was mine was my greatest obstacle, moreover, who in their right mind would've dared to leave her? Of course the time came when this sore spot became a triviality, a time where I would rather have been consumed by that harmless rage. But the time to talk about that time will come later.

The sun of that winter morning was a benevolent one, the shade of the tree over us was the perfect aide. The nearly absolute silence, on the other hand, was so liberating in its scope that it almost became asphyxiating, and it did become worrying. I was thinking about the mildly urgent wishes from which humans are sometimes prone to suffer, depending on the situation, like absolute silence, for which many a turbulent time I had dreamed of obtaining, and how, then and there, when I had obtained it, silence seemed like a broken promise. I reasonably feared we had stranded too far from the farm, and deeply enough into the plains, still reigned by the most natural of laws, the one which only allows living beings to dream of living another day, when the grass intermittently covering the ground seemed to come alive, with a frightening noise that signaled the feral presence of a presumably dangerous creature, ready to annihilate the anomaly carelessly swaggering on its land. Thankfully, just seconds later, a harmless skiddo with a weary face and a nice rear appeared, dull front first, and then left unceremoniously, after granting us a look from its tired eyes for a couple of seconds. The preamble to that encounter was menacing enough to be acknowledged by the three humans and Nene, so the sense of dread remained and clouded our spacial awareness for a hefty moment, and only when we were released from its intensity, Annie and I, did we notice that Claire had dexterously sneaked away and out of sight undetected. In the ensuing confusion, where Annie lost her composure and began prancing aimlessly around the green, desperately looking for the silhouette of her mother, veering her eyes to every direction without really processing the images produced, my hand was mystically attracted toward Nene's elfin counterpart. Right when her tender skin made contact with my cold, her glowing red eyes, filled with surprise as well as confusion, and perhaps a hint of curiosity, with a swift and precise movement were locked in with mine, and in response I hurried to lead my free index finger to my lips, which smiled, freeing her from the confusion and surprise and leaving her, sweet, diminutive witch, with a merrier curiosity. Then, in silence and with a smile and an expectant look on her face, she was led away from the obtrusion.

As we walked through the gentle woods with mirthful stealth, I realized I had gained a remarkable amount of sympathy for Claire, not solely for allowing me a fleeting instant without surveillance with my beloved, as I was also able to notice in her the same thirst for solitude for which I was pleading. It seemed like the same people that thoughtlessly oppressed my intentions, did the same with hers, and it is obvious to me now that having the same wandering sentiment driving our escapades, is what made me notice her situation.

Soon my beloved and I found an old wooden table, partially consumed by greenish mildew, and considerably decayed by the land. A man-made structure condemned to succumb slowly among the rest of the still alive and unadulterated nature, that table still served splendidly to enable a succulent moment, which simultaneously produced a cherished memory. First I made my beloved sit on the least perverted side, almost on the corner of the seat, with her porcelain back directed at the table. Then I began pacing left and right, while the effortlessly cloistering trees poised everywhere around us remained stationary. Admittedly filled with anxiety and doubt, and the ubiquitous fear of being discovered, I tried to calm down and present a serene semblance at the same time I stared at her, intending to produce a warm smile, but in my state ignorant of its actual effect, as Nene followed my nervous motion without breaking visual contact, moving her whole head as she swayed, with an undoubtedly honest and pure smile on her thin white lips, until I stopped, with my hands on my hips, betraying myself by placing my back to her, and took a deep, sobering breath, then I faced her.

Nene was holding her diminutive white hands together, exuding sober refinement with her perfectly straight posture, beautifully juxtaposed with her adorably precious smile, calm and collected, yet still bringing forth the warmest kind of tenderness, and producing in me a devout desire to protect her. The sight of her instantly sent an ineffable wave of delight that traveled through my optic nerves all the way to the back of my head and then all through my body, making my entrails revolt with ecstasy and my heart throb with unburdened passion. It was then that I couldn't help but release my voice, previously fettered by a state of hyper-awareness, which still managed to damage me with its full force, after the first cry I was able to produce was, embarrassingly, a high-pitched, half-conscious, dramatically oscillating moan. Consequently I cleared my throat, filled with shame, and proceeded to babble for a few seconds before I finally managed to ask her how she was. Her smile became adorably wider, her eyes glistened with a more concrete spark—my sweet darling!—before she nodded effusively with her eyes closed. I asked her a couple more questions that produced as a response the same affirmative motion. I had calmed down completely by then, the whole world outside the inner layer of trees had successfully disappeared, and both her and I were mine. Then I said:

"What's wrong? Do you have a cold and that's why you won't speak to me? Or might it be that you simply don't want to talk to me?" and moved on to enjoy as she became overwhelmed by a burst of anxiousness and impotence, from which she began senselessly waving her arms and moving her head from side to side, trying to both answer my shamelessly mischievous questions with a resounding negative, and to clarify the truth, of which I was well aware. Nevertheless I continued my enjoyment of her gullible charm.

"You know, now that I do think about it, you have never truthfully spoken to me, have you? Could it be that you don't like me?"

Afterwards her frenzy turned much more hysterical, up to and until a suppressed giggle I couldn't contain was heard, after which she raised her head and looked at me with eyes of incredulity. Nene got visibly mad afterwards, as mad as she, with her elfin frame, sylphlike figure, and endearingly winsome features could get. I was about to head toward her, intending to appease her with an embrace, when she stood up, and made me back away by a few inches. Nene seemingly hesitated for a moment before her countenance changed. She walked until she had me right in front of her, and, as she looked well above her stature, with her neck considerably extended, at me, with a pleading expression on her face, she took my hand and then led it to one of her crimson horns. With that simple contact I was engulfed in a sublime aura of utter bliss. Suddenly I knew she was trying to communicate to me a concrete and objective sentence, detailing how she couldn't speak the same bastardized language I was using to communicate with her. Of course I knew this, I was just teasing her, but the serendipitous result I obtained brought me almost as much pleasure as what she was willingly giving me with a mere touch. Next I asked her, without releasing my hold of her vertex, if that was the way she used to communicate in a more objective manner. She didn't have to tell me psychically, instead she simply nodded unceremoniously, with my hand still on her. Then I was dead set on asking her all the questions that came to me, and was ready to do that for an eternity. When I asked Nene what her favorite color was, an undefinable shade of magenta appeared in my mind, fluctuating and disappearing at random. When I asked her what her favorite food was, a hazy image of leppa berries smothered in cream likewise appeared just for me, along with a tangible hint of the combination on my taste buds. Her favorite smell was decidedly that of blooming gracideas on spring. And so I asked her anything that came to my mind, just to keep her engaged, until I fortuitously mentioned hobbies, when she, without the need for words, told me she liked dancing.

I responded with genuine surprise, and after a decisive response filled with pride from her, I caught the perfect moment to ask her if she could demonstrate her ability, just for me. She agreed without hesitation, and began by bowing before me, slowly, closing her eyes and leading her arms outward and upwards, instantly creating a heavy aura filled with pure and intoxicant grace. Then she turned back and started walking, frolicking, wandering, sauntering, meandering, whatever that angelic and light movement of hers should be called (I am not well versed in any rhythmic endeavors), with her elbows suspended in the air, carrying the same distance from the ground to her olecranon on either side at all times, superbly flexing, extending and arching her lissome legs and knees, first with long and perfectly calculated strides, then barely advancing forward with microscopic steps, each and every single one singularly riveting, yet equally mesmerizing. Next she lifted her left arm and paraded her open hand from right to left, watching it fall to her side with a delicate tilting of the head, at the same time she raised her left leg and stood on her right one effortlessly. Immediately afterwards she jumped, while holding her leg arched, her arms and hands poised statuesque and delightful, and a restrained yet clearly jubilant smile on her face. Then she bowed to her right, moved to her left with the microscopic steps, arched, jumped, bowed to her left side. Meanwhile my insides had gleefully regressed into a sluggish puddle of anesthetic pleasure, which was sent from my entrails, on my abdomen, instead of the usual lower spot, to the rest of my body, in warm waves of innocent mirth, at first. Then I lost track of her objective movements, and her limbs, which beforehand I could only observe individually, became along with her a whole which brought me a particular kind of pleasure, from her to me, and I swear the more joyous my viscera became, the more beautiful Nene became to my conscious delight. Whatever gesture she did, and in whatever stance she finished a movement, she would turn upwards at me, regardless of the position in which her body was left after an exquisitely performed pirouette, her beaming face would follow mine, daring me to lose myself in the psychic contact of our eyes, with disarming looks full of the sublime—that morning I had no idea of what I would find. I still managed to detect some stock ballerina stances, left arm arched above her head, right one arched in front of her abdomen, right leg on the air, as she stared to her right, smiling vibrant, delicate and precise, each swift movement delightfully concise, tender life pulsating from her, a multi-colored concert of skin for my eyes which were utmost alert, adorable and disarming, and at the same time respect-demanding. I audibly marveled at her talent and prowess, and silently at her unconsciously tantalizing factor, with a growing sense of exaltation, as she carried on. When she finished, exhausted and eager to recover oxygen, I focused on her breathing, on her mouth and chest, and tried arduously to place that snippet in the visual storage of my brain, before I continued to rhapsodize openly at her, with my voice and hands. I watched her sweet and prideful profile turn demure and genuinely abashed from my compliments. Then I said:

"I wish I could dance like you, do you think you could teach me?" and watched her erupt from excitement.

I went for her. I grabbed her hand and lifted it. Without an order she began spinning around, with her eyes closed again, and an air of freedom I hadn't seen in her before. I couldn't stand the sight of her. She finished and placed both diminutive feet on the ground, I let her go and clapped again. She led her white hand to her mouth and laughed, closing her eyes again. I grabbed her by the hips, led one of my hands upwards, all through her natural silk, necessarily kneeling down in the process, all the way to her cheek. Sweet Nene started moving her head left and right, deliberately, fondling my hand with her cheeks, still with her eyes closed, abandoning herself to my caress, delighting my palm with her softness in the process.

We were later found, and the crackling of leaves I heard before I saw anyone sufficed to cool my spirit. With the first hint of an intrusion I released her from our healing embrace, of course I remained on my knees longer. Our walk back to the house and the rest of the day ensued ordinarily, but during the night, when I found myself irredeemably consumed by the spell left by my sweet ballerina, I couldn't help but be led to her, outside and to the barn. It took me a ridiculous amount of time to open the door, however I managed to do it without making a discernible noise, in almost full darkness. I already knew where she was located, on the right corner at the back—and this was because a few days before that intrepid attempt I had visited her place of nightly sojourn, and had taken with me a fistful of the chaff of which her bed was made. Nene woke up confused and alarmed, and I had to assure her with whispers that it was only me, after which she became completely limp and quiet, surrendering herself to me. Moments later an unknown man barged into the barn, and once he was inside he ignited a lamp. Then, with the two of us in full view of each other, I, laying down, he, standing, just as startled and confused by my presence as I was by his, we were paralyzed. Claire went in, and then she stared at me as well, with the same puzzled expression, which contained as much incredulity as it did palpable disdain, as that of the strange man, who was a short and thin fellow with an abundant mustache and a balding summit. The moment continued with complete silence and complete lack of motion, until Claire turned off the lamp and casually told the man to ignore me. They proceeded to meddle and tinker around in darkness, as I remained in bed with Nene. Some more cumbersome moments later the doors opened, and I was able to see the silhouettes of Claire and the man, she noticeably taller than he, as they went out. When it had been completely silent for some time, I told Nene I'd come back to check on her in the morning, then I went out, closed the barn behind me, and went to lay on my bed. Annie was deeply asleep, snoring, with her fingers stuck in her mouth.

In the morning I went down, there was no sign of Claire. I opened the barn and discovered it had been looted. The miltank and the skiddo were gone, so were Val's tools, and the only thing that remained, laying on her bed made out of straw, staring right at me with pleading eyes filled with confusion, was Nene. Of course, I didn't need anything else.


	7. 8

8

The beautiful plains of the Kalos countryside, a vast and green landscape highlighted by the morning sun. Somewhere in the middle of green nowhere, from an arbitrarily chosen location surrounded by vain nature, untouched by civilization, flames arose. The fire emerged from a house; caused by a man, named Val, who had abandoned himself to an irredeemable rage. He saw it burn, with eyes full of despair, he saw the ashes of his past ascending, and oscillating with the wind, mocking him from above, as the gray dispersed on the indifferent blue sky. Next to him a simple girl with an oral fixation, together they mourned the mother's betrayal, with no hope for the future, surely nothing for them in sight—apart from the flames, of course. And yet in their sorrow they ignored, an audacious beggar (that's me!) had taken something else from them, perhaps the last thing which they could pretend to claim as their own; when in reality, that something had instead returned to his preternaturally predetermined, rightful owner, S. S.

I had to act fast. Of course my only real task constituted convincing Nene to run away with me, nevertheless it was not as easy an affair as I would've preferred. My conflicted princess parried all of the enticing prospects with which I tried to sway her with a resolute motion of the head, left and right, with eyes closed, from which anguish still noticeably emanated, that at some point I did think my stammering speech would fail miserably, and I'd be forced to carry her to an obviously gentler future, against her will. Even after Val discovered Clair's nocturnal raid and escape, and consequently ascertained her definite betrayal, and with berserker tears rolling down his red face he set the farm on fire, Nene didn't want to leave, not even after I assured her, with complete certainty varnishing my voice, that it was the best choice for her—for the two of us. It seems, with her inherently emphatic nucleus, she feared for Annie's safety—she knew her unhinged father would assume full control of her—but other than that, I didn't lie to her. I said anything else would be better than the horrible normalcy to which she foolishly tried to hold on. I said Val wouldn't scream at her anymore, I said I'd love her, I said I'd protect her from strangers, I said I'd never let anybody else touch her—all of it was true, at least then. At the very least, I believed all of it. Frightened, and filled with doubt, all noticeable in her big red eyes glistening with impotence, she took my hand. I took her away, and then she became, finally, all mine.

It really is a horrible thing to mistreat a pokemon, isn't it? To physically and verbally abuse it, solely because you're angry and, looking to release some overflowing passion out of you, want a helpless vessel in which to pour it all, selfishly. Certainly horrendous, what some people, trainers or otherwise, do to their pokemon.

It certainly was easy, for me, to think Val deserved what had happened to him; and it was perhaps easier to enjoy it. Numerous times his violent words harmed my precocious protege, who had done nothing to deserve such a merciless treatment. In fact it was he who didn't deserve to be a hundred miles near her.

How can a human think about harming their closest companions? How can any reasonable human not seek to avenge those who are harmed? Such act is humanely unthinkable, speaking of it with even the slightest positive connotation is preposterous, immediately reprehensible, and rightfully frowned upon, these days.

Of course, only twenty years ago this wasn't the case. Just twenty years ago, what we recognize today as a ruthless flogging with the use of a leather whip (and guess where the leather comes from), was universally considered as a normal and healthy practice. Violently beating your trainees, submissive or otherwise, with a stick or a whip, was deemed by reasonable people as the best and most successful way to instruct and raise a pokemon. What you think of as unfathomable and inhumane treatment today, merely twenty years ago, someone your age thought of as perfectly fine; correct. The people of twenty years ago saw nothing wrong with objectively inflicting pain on a pokemon to help it learn. Make no mistake, this was the bona fide training method, until Samuel Oak released his study denouncing the practice. What was at first a truly upsetting investigation, shook the already quivering seams of the floor on which humans presumed to lay, and showed them a glimpse of the uncomfortable truth hiding beneath it. After Oak released his study, twenty (20) years ago, more years and considerable outrage had to ensue in order for that practice to be officially abolished, in most regions.

Now, sensible and indignant brother or sister, you might feel inclined to think that sad chapter in the book of our species is one of many that had to be written and then left in the past, in order for us to reach our current stage. It was a mistake that we made, everyone makes mistakes, now we know better. Sadly, it seems to be an entirely different case altogether. Take a few seconds to ponder about this: twenty years from now, a current practice which is enforced daily and seen as completely normal today, will be mocked and qualified as inhumane and barbaric. Some of us will still be alive when we look back at this time and realize how wrong we were. It is not that this might happen—it will happen. But what are we doing wrong? Because we are in fact doing something that will be deemed as utterly wrong in the future. Are we simply too simple to see it? If it's wrong, useless, bad or just stupid, why can't we see it? When I said that Oak's study showed us a glimpse of the uncomfortable truth, I didn't mean to say it showed we were doing something wrong, no, I meant to say it showed us we don't know what is right or wrong. It showed us that we make up what is right and what is wrong in order to feel safe. Because we are scared, we are very scared, all of us. After all, if a person realizes that he or she can't ever be sure of anything, how can that little person ever feel safe? If you think you know something, if you're sure of something, not of everything, just of a tiny little thing, I have bad news for you, that's just you clinging to that piece of false certainty for dear life, because you're scared of falling into the bottomless void of doubt, which is really all there is, or isn't, I guess. I'm not sure myself.

In fact I'm not sure of anything, but of what I can think with the highest degree of certainty probably possible is that there is fear. And, aren't we just afraid of everything? We are afraid of letting go, we are afraid of getting closer, and yet how despondently easy it is to become attached to a traveling companion that fits in our pocket.

After all, how could you refuse to give your affection to somebody willing to in turn gift you with unconditional love, undying loyalty, unending trust and unceasing attention, a creature so easily unburdened by the fear which permeates the rest of existence?

And how much more difficult is it to release our honest affection towards another human?

Humans always have conditions to spare, it's in their nature. Humans can use their words to hurt others. Humans always look out for themselves first. Humans don't always show appreciation or gratitude. Humans keep secrets. Humans can be selfishly cruel.

And how much easier is it to lose that human affection?

How much easier is it to grow to hate another person? All it takes is a bad day for a thought of love to become one of hate. The vast majority of humans are cruel, cold, and self-absorbed. They have done so many terrible things it seems not every one of them has earned the right to be regarded as a human. I would gladly renounce my own meaningless humanity if it meant I wouldn't be considered the same as the rest of them.

As for you, for the rest of you, who might believe the magnetic attraction of my debased hands towards her pith is impure and corrupted. Indulge, for indulgence's sake: would you still believe what you believe if you stopped believing it for two seconds? It has nothing to do with the objective truth after all, if such a thing exists—my guess is no.

I can tell you what I believe. I believe I loved her. I believed I loved someone who wouldn't ever betray me—who wouldn't ever leave me. I believe I was afraid of losing her. I believe you're afraid too.

I mean think about it, Val was so afraid that he hanged himself mere days after burning down the farm in a blind rage. The women of the farm were so afraid of him, and yet it was he who ended up taking his own life. That has to account for something, or perhaps not. And about Annie, well, I'll tell you what happened to her later.

Soon after our intrepid escape the intensity of the tragedy brought a terrible exhaustion upon me, which was exacerbated by our hectic pace around the endless green labyrinth, as well as my previously comfortable unfamiliarity with the limited physical endeavors of which my body was capable. As we frolicked through the dainty field in search of an appropriate exit, and ignored our thoroughly disoriented status with considerable effort, alluring shades beneath inviting trees, soundly defeated my intentions to continue standing up. My rear was soon laid on top of an amiable rock which protruded generously well above the ground. From my transient state of relief I stared hungrily at my jittery beloved, as she was consumed by a nervous fit, certainly produced by the thoroughly uncertain nature of our future. Meanwhile, my general state during that moment was one of true relaxation, as far as I can attest. We were lost, without food, without any perceivable resources, without a trained ability to obtain any resources, as the sun hurried to fall onto the horizon, taking the last visible straw of assuaging light with it, tinging the current sky of a luscious violet which seemed to wink at what anxiously glistened below my navel. As if signaling the natural confirmation of all of my intentions, my desires, my mischievous mental machinations converging into that translucent evening, the temperature decreased noticeably, and our deaths, hers and mine, seemed nearer than they had ever seemed in a recognizable past, and it was because of this that I couldn't think of a more exquisite way to go. The two of us and our unshackled bodies conjoined in ravenous motion for hours and hours surrounded only by mindless vegetation until our exhausted and empty spirits perished in ecstasy. My mind, stirred by the prospect of an enjoyable kind of death, wandered in this murky water until we were hit by the full force of a feral night in the woods. A soft breeze, cold and merciless, slightly dwindled my spirit, eager to put my plan into action—our bodies would have to remain shackled after all—and at the same time it awoke my senses, to the point that I managed to notice a subtle change in Nene's mien and general demeanor. Her eyes were curiously alert as she called me to follow her, a request which I couldn't grant until a few minutes had passed, and I was able to stand up from the rock. She then led me around the midnight haze, and as I walked I did think she had read my mind, and with her mystical power was directing me to the perfect spot to enact our ritualistic demise. However, I was mildly surprised, and just as disappointed as I was relieved, when we arrived at a rather agreeable cottage in the middle of the woods.

Carelessly and unscrupulously she softly walked all the way to the front door of this picturesque, human-made peculiarity in the middle of the woods, as I lagged behind, and enjoyed staring at her quivering behind, exquisitely diminutive and sylphlike, specially roused by her unflinching walk. An elegant second later an alien figure disrupted our perfect harmony with jarring violence, as if sticking a metal finger into my full eye-socket, and deep into my brain, a tall, bespectacled, lean man, uncharacteristically white haired, carrying a subtle smile on his lips, with the perceived cold blue of his eyes he gazed down at my beloved, who in turn turned her head at me and raised her hand, telling me to approach.

I approached, with a killer instinct and a gregarious facade. An overwhelming desire to eliminate the invader was barely quelled by the very possible notion of his overpowering of my attack. I found myself in a very sudden and unpleasant distress, as I walked towards the door, having seemingly forgotten how to walk, as it had happened to me quite a few times in the past. Silently, and in acute discomfort, I reached them, and faced the man whose summit reached a couple of inches higher than my own, and finding myself surrounded only by an incisive, severing silence, I released another pathetic, wavering trace of my voice.

"Hi."

More amputating silence ensued, and I was forced to clear my throat in order to continue.

"Our house burned down a few hours ago, I don't know if you were able to see the smoke."

"I didn't see anything," this man said with a readied voice, deep and nuanced, young and sober.

After this ruthlessly cutting remark, I froze momentarily before I began speaking again. I attempted to articulate a reasonable—believable—narration that would explain our situation as well as our past. I only failed miserably, and felt the heavy silence and his piercing psychic stare as a gruesome drilling on my chest which resounded in an anxious crescendo all over my body. I was also unable to come up with a new destination for Nene and I, one to which this strange man could provide guidance. He only released me from my prison of silent embarrassment when I had become thoroughly consumed and defeated by it—he let us inside. And had us sit on a miniature version of a modular couch of vivid red velvet upholstery, with gold brocade trim and hand carved designs in its pediment top. The place was bigger than it seemed from the outside, although perhaps the abundant light and the brightly colored walls, added to the soothing sense of cloistered warmth which remained thanks to the two logs ablaze on the fireplace, played their part to deceive my senses.

Our disdained rescuer stood in front of the window next to the door with his back turned to us as he began his interrogation, which I parried ineffectively with a monotonous source of meaningless lies enhanced by insipid truths. Ultimately he allowed us to stay provided I provided an identification.

"I believe I know your father," he said as he stared at my open wallet.

"My father is dead," I replied casually.

He didn't look at me before or after this exchange, but it clearly forced him to ponder about his next oral performance for a good number of seconds—and then he said he was sorry and nothing else. His visual field during that moment showcased the swaying branches of cold trees, and the grass fatuously dancing to the sepulchral slow song of the dead of night. My eyes—recording from an oblique angle on the corner—featured predominantly white: to my left, the diminutive-yet- clearly-refined table within the little kitchen at the far end of the room, to my right, a tall, sullen and taciturn man staring at a window, on my right bottom corner, an exquisite appetizer of the green of my beloved's head, and at the bottom, without moving, I could see my hand holding Nene's delicate counterpart, as I kept it firmly safe on my lap. That scene remained still for far longer than what I was able to interpret. From his red velvet seat, I can almost swear that I could hear the dismal silent song playing for his enviable sulk during that moment, as his eyes kept themselves at the darkness outside, before it all ended when he turned to me, with rested blue eyes full of incorruptible peace behind his black-framed glasses, and he said, "I'm leaving tomorrow. I need someone to take care of this property. You'll stay here."


	8. 9

9

Days later, a refreshing haze settled upon the green hills, static, silent and peaceful, as everything that breathes should be.

It truly was a beautiful morning when the cold was finally mitigated by the unbridled sun, and the natural nothing was so inviting, and the inside was so asphyxiating, that I couldn't help but be led outside. As I made my descent through the voiceless vegetation, which I considered a friend of mine more than any other sentient creature, saw the white cotton vapor extend and disappear before my wet eyes at my leisurely pace, towards the amiable town of Couriway, alive in all the wrong ways—at least to me, with its long days, unchanging seasons, and jolly, simple folks hiding within the picturesque facade, delightfully contemptible—my conscious thoughts reveled in the waters restricted among the mortal tissue which capriciously reigned over me; at this particular time, it had only one song, which radiated outside of me, compelling my immediate surroundings to submit to its alleviating rhythm, and with its silence it told me: my victory was complete.

The first indistinct human which assaulted my visual field once I reached the town, disrupted my soothing flow, shook my liquid to such an extent, brought some much rage out of me, that I did think I'd never be able to achieve such a delightful state ever again. But thankfully, the memory of my victory, hidden away safely by me, for me, and only me, proved too overwhelming to be driven away, and I was soon swaying along with the vibrant liquid guarding my brain.

I wish my story had ended there, where I had a reason to stop my body from starving into unconsciousness, to simply move a muscle, to articulate a thought. As it turns out, everything has to continue, seemingly forever.

My self-imposed mission took me to an adorable super-market, located on a corner of the most transited zone of the town. For any other person, certainly for someone from a bigger city like Lumiose, the atmosphere on that morning may have seemed pleasantly subdued. But for me, who by then had grown as disdainful of people as an isolated misanthrope could withstand, it was difficult to navigate, specially because any movement, or any sound, would unsparingly distract me from my victorious rapture.

After so much time separated from the rest of the members my species, and even if I didn't care whether they decomposed right in front of me or fell into a bottomless crevasse at the other side of the world, I couldn't help but be rendered speechless, and my movements became rigid and unconsciously over-analyzed, and it was all because my shame was just too powerful to ignore, even in my jovial state. I grabbed bags and packages indiscriminately, some to eat, some to clean with—it was part of my agreement with the owner of the cottage that I'd keep it agreeable—and still in a half mirthful, half shameful state, I took all of it to the cashier. I looked at her with a warm and inviting semblance, I assume. I even said "Hi," and "Thank you," but she did not say a word in return, in fact she didn't direct a single look at me, and I could tell, perhaps simply because I couldn't stop being a human, that my presence was not welcome, and it instead generated an uncomfortable, purulent air on the premises. Still, the triumphant state of my spirit was too difficult to defeat, and so I walked out of there with my head held high and the face of my beloved assuaging the psychic strikes pursuing me from behind.

The walk back was significantly easier, the silence and the mirth returned, they took over me with such a force that I am certain my feet were separated from the ground, and remained that way all the way to the cottage. After leaving the bags at the door I took a few seconds to admire the locks I had installed, just the day before. I had never worked with such care, in fact I had never truly worked for anything before that laborious installation, and certainly not as much as I did when I married the metal to the wood in such a delightfully precise way, that I felt a litter of Nenes to hide inside would not be enough to salute myself for such a work well done. It didn't matter, and I only needed one of her. Sensually, my hand slid into my right pocket, where my fingers touched the cold metal of the set of keys, and the sense of victory was multiplied; I let out an audible exhalation. Then I took my hand out and pondered about all the possibilities, and my sense of victory grew larger, and manifested externally. I moved to the window next to the door and tried to look through the curtains, only to notice indistinguishable silhouettes without movement, which did move in my mind. She was there. She was mine.

And with that mantra varnishing the elliptic walls on the inside of my seething skull, and with a scheming smile enhanced by an impish sense of accomplishment, I kept my keys in my pocket, turned around, and went behind the cottage, and further into the woods, alive and yet forever inviolate.

There, abandoned to the potentially transcendent silence, surrounded by green which was only distinguishable from the oscillating waves of the sea by its color, I evoked the image of my bewitching beloved. Vibrant in red and green and white, rendered somber and sullen by the confining walls and curtains covering the windows, looking up and smiling sensibly, her elastic muscles distinguishing with lush nuance the trip of my touch through her soft white. Consequently, and surrounded by flashing colors suddenly dancing around me, I wrapped her, still smiling, with twelve hands which at contact with her warm fur turned into black tentacles, which slithered through every corner of her perpetual nakedness, covering her in subjugating sludge until it turned into smoke along with all of her, and she disappeared after I inhaled her whole.

My enraptured machinations which belonged to, and could only be witnessed by, me—still more significant and certainly more important than any other thing whimsically believed to be objective and physical; existent—were interrupted by a loud noise of the most grievous kind: a warm and friendly greeting shouted from afar. My eyes were forcefully opened after my ears were cruelly violated by his resounding voice which made both the ground and my skull tremble obscenely. At this woeful sound my psyche shattered into a million pieces, and I swear I was able to see the fragments fall slowly to the ground like shards of glass, scintillating from the sunlight on their way down.

"A very nice day to hunt! Isn't it?" A tall, rotund man and his considerable gullet, which bellowed with every rhythmic motion of his step, like a big balloon filled with water about to burst, cruised violently through the green—the sunlight piercing dashingly through the top of the trees embellished his background and his pace behind his shoulders—towards me. He was as imposing to my self as his abundant beard was to the rest of his face, and the straw hat on his head fell downwards at the front, tilted low enough to give his forehead and eyes a wicked shade from the sun, through which two round eyes seemed to glisten.

I remained silent and he remained silent after meeting me, and as our bodies stood still my anxiousness grew, and consumed my torso.

"Excuse me?" came out sickly out of me.

"I'm lying, of course." He threw an open hand at me whilst sporting a smile. His palms were excessively hairy, sadly, his humanity was still too clear to entice my sensations. Furthermore, his overtly cheerful demeanor and the perpetual beaming status of his face made my despise for him complete. "No hunting for me. Not anymore… I'm lying! Again!" He released his right arm from his shoulder as if it were a heavy iron flail, and directed his attack at my shoulder—in other words, he gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder, and it was the most painful friendly gesture I'd ever received, at least physically speaking. "No. See, I wasn't hunting, no sir. Hunting is bad. The poor pokemon don't deserve to be treated that way, just because some people have an unquenchable urge to thrill their senses. No. I was fishing. See, I'm a fisherman now. Do you fish? You look like a fisherman to me. Have you caught anything?"

"No."

"…I see. You're a beginner then. I'm a bit of a veteran in this field, I've caught myself quite a bit of friends. I've released them all of course, or at least, I've tried to. See, some of them, after being out of the water for a little bit, well they just don't want to leave anymore. And what can a person do in that situation? You showed them what's outside the water and you're not going to let them stay on land? That's just mean. So yeah, Today seemed a specially good day to pick something, and I did get myself a couple, just two. Man! It feels good to have someone else to talk to, it gets pretty lonely out here, if you know what I mean."

"Yes. So, if you excuse me."

"You're excused! In fact, you are absolved! Of everything you've done! He he."

"I have to leave."

"Oh, I see. Are you staying on that lovely cottage nearby?"

I didn't respond.

"Are you taking care of it for Ernst?"

"Yes."

"That's good, very good! It's too pretty to be left alone, it would deteriorate, and then, who'd get to enjoy it? That Ernst, with his crazy white hair. He's quite good looking isn't he. So, are you in there alone?"

"Yes, it's just me."

"I see. You must get pretty lonely."

"Not at all. I have to go back."

"See, what I do is, I practice martial arts. I used to be a martial artist too. For the most part I'd let my opponents throw me around all over the place, people and pokemon alike. I have weak ankles, my opponents knew it. But, you know, it was fun either way. It was exhilarating."

"Yes, I have to go."

"Didn't they used to have a pokemon there in the cottage? I swear I remember they used to keep it there as a pet, though I can't remember the name. Names, names, I'm terrible with names. It was a name. Why does everyone have names? Why can't only the truly important people and pokemon have names? I tell you, it would make things a lot easier for most of us."

"Yes, so."

"I swear I remember. It's north of my nape. The name, the stupid name, narrowing, nugatory, negligible. Ah! Who cares. My mind isn't what it used to be, neither is my body, as you can see. And I'd rather not think of what awaits me. Everything is always heading towards the ground, towards the pains, the tears and the roses… Oh! Excuse me. I did not invite you to commiserate, in fact I have made you listen to me for far too long. Please enjoy the cottage, and the rest of your day."

And with this, the rotund hairy man turned around and left me with the butchered carcass of my thoughts and my intentions. The disruption had been too severe, suicide seemed a viable option to continue my affairs, chiefly because afterwards my brain, tainted and unraveled by uncouth hands covered in black greasy curls of hair, refused to reincorporate to my body. Hours of silence and mental misery, recapitulation, masochistic remembrance of my previous assassination at the hands of the fisherman, seething anger, and blank space devoid of thoughts, later, my system was rebooted, and after a healing walk through the green I felt cleansed enough to return home.

Before unlocking the door I circled around the house three times and seemingly ascertained my external solitude. Only then did I introduce the warm keys into their respective sockets, and with mechanized, metallic motions adulterated the air within our private atmosphere, if only to introduce my self in it. My eyes took an uncomfortably long time to adjust, in complete silence, to the dour setting inside. Based on what my senses could interpret right after I entered, I could've been alone; but I knew better. My Nene was there, waiting for me like the most obsequious housewife, and the possibility of a life in which many more days and submissive welcomes ensued uniformly, did open in front of me. It was true; Nene was waiting patiently on the red velvet couch, with her back elegantly straight, with her eyes opened wide, perhaps bigger than ever before; holding her hands together.

I walked towards her in an accusatory manner, she no longer existed outside of me, however her stillness did disarm me as I neared, and my pace did falter; to the point that my attack was dissolved into a single caress of her cheek with the tip of my finger. Thankfully, with this soothing touch my vigor returned, and I knelt down in front of her, and without saying a single word I grabbed her hand, and mine frolicked all the way to her elbow, at which point I led her whole closer to me. Then it was her who, in a sudden, truly shocking development, performed the final microscopic reach of her lips towards mine, and kissed me tenderly, and I was instantly universally vindicated, for a full second, in which I lost myself in delight. Right afterwards however, my mind returned to myself with such violence that I was rigidly compelled not only to break that succulent contact, but to stand up and grab my face as well, if only to try and stop the subjugating (imaginary) sludge from coming out of my eyes. Luckily, my daring darling took psychic notice of my state, and she stood up too, and wrapped her arms around my waist, and engulfed me in a healing embrace, during which, innocently (as I thought then), she rubbed her delicate face with motions from side to side, on my according area, and I was irrevocably compelled to grab on to her head. She kept her hypnotic motion for as long as I kept my hand on the luscious green of her head, and in my trance my body took over every function of my being, and rendered me a slave of that motion itself, until sweet Nene led her hand towards mine, still holding her head, and moved it gently towards her red horn, and at that neural contact my consciousness momentarily returned.

"Do you know anything about this?" I asked, hesitantly and afraid. Afraid of getting the answer I suddenly condensed within me, which I suddenly dreaded. It was the answer I got from her. Without saying anything, and without moving, with the contact of her horn and the palm of my hand, she told me in images what she knew. What she had seen. Rhythmic thrusts shrouded in darkness, forceful hands handling her noggin unscrupulously, forward and backwards, her white cheeks turning red from both physical sensation and internal emotion, red eyes lost in the exuberance of the moment, more red in her white, this one from friction. Her being conducted by her inner, incorrigible desire to please and to cheer, as well as her selfless submission at the wanton will of the other. And by all of this—I couldn't take my hand off of her horn—I was consumed by enabling wrath as I was equally enticed, and I didn't take my hand after the wrath subsided, momentarily. It was, unacceptable. Silently, I told her this. Silently, she cried and apologized profusely, and remember, she didn't exist outside of me. So I pressed, and I pressed, and I tightened the hold of my fingers until my mind was painted of a warning red, and pleads to stop bombarding the edges, and it was then that I made myself with her gift, her ability to empathize, to a painful degree. In that moment I could feel the pain she was feeling, the pain I was causing her with the grip of my righteous hand, the pain I was causing myself. That's when it arrived to me—and I released her horn, held it softly, and the delight of her motions of her past life returned—that, all those images, they were all mine. It was all mine. Every motion, every thrust into her, every wicked smile with yellow teeth and lustful eyes, staring down at her, meek, and powerless, and resigned, was mine. You, were all mine. That was all that mattered.


	9. 10

10

There are times, when the venomous fever that I have conceived for myself strikes me and renders me unconditionally ineffectual. At this very moment I cannot hide what I have done from my perpetually tormented mind. The naked grimace of my greatest sin rises and expands, and stares at me from above. It binds me whole with a sole attack to the chest, and then I am paralyzed, physically and mentally, with no solace in sight. Not even the memory of my victory against that one whose remains will not cry from the ground, allows me to breath unburdened for even one second.

On days like these, the grueling, inhibiting specter and its dull gray take over, and such a state leads my mind to recall the time right after I learned of my beloved's shameful past. It took me a moment to react the way I saw fit, with my being lost in the visual ether which traveled from the nerve endings on the tip of my fingers—synaptically connected to her ostensibly bludgeoned neural core naturally painted red—all the way to my very own private theater which is open every time I close my eyes, but the curtains did close on that contemptible performance, when my delectation reached its respite and my hand let go of her horn to be made into a fist, which shook involuntarily, as the toll was paid and the fees released, and then, I was not happy.

In spite of my relationship with certainty, I can positively affirm that what I did to Nene afterwards affected her in a more substantial way than some of the more gaudy events which ensued later. Breathing heavily enough to feel the pressure of my exhalations on my chest, I turned my back to her, and felt the light pressure of her head on the back of my thighs, and then the hold of her embrace softly wrapping my knees. By looking down I could see, even with the lights off, her white little arms—not thicker than the stem of a flower; perhaps just as easy to break—coveting my knees, cloaked petulantly in thin black wool. With a sudden movement, I managed to release myself from her and send her rear to the ground, and then I went for the door, and when I sensed her stubborn chase after me I looked back and down at her, channeling all of my anger towards my eyes, and with an effective stare I made her meager muscles freeze. I went outside and closed the door behind me, and waited. I did wait. And when nothing happened, when she did not come out, only then, I locked the door, and my resentful state allowed me to get some wicked enjoyment out of her sorrowful cries, which came clear-cut from the inside.

Another reason—one out of many—by which I can tell, conceivably, that I loved her, is admitted without reservations by me, presently speaking about the past, where during that particular bitter chapter my spirits were unresponsive, and therefore so was my body, on its entirety. Because of her deception my blood was forbidden from flowing through my vessels. And my worries were real, although not really significant and insignificantly fluctuating; as insignificant as my posterity. After all, how can a human care about posterity if there's nothing for them to reach and hold on, leaving a mark in the process? That said, I loved her. I was completely enamored by her, and so, like the most whimsically permissive boyfriend, freshly invaded by endorphins, I couldn't help but let her offenses toward me become my property, my offenses. And so, just a month later, as retribution, I managed to convince her to rigorously reminisce about her past life, and evoke every single one of her offenses to my self which she could consciously remember, and with arduous endeavor and constant repetition she managed to replace whatever alien body figured in all of her mental recollections, with myself, at _my_ command and under my supervision. It was only fair.

But that's a month in waiting. On that same night, when I decided to take her back, if not to forgive her, I went back into the house to find my beloved's inert body laying down right in the middle of the darkened living room, with the ground right beneath her drenched in fluid, half of the contents of which consisted of tears. I turned on the light for the first time since the owner of the cottage left, and took the image of her in full, it left a heinous, throat-clogging imprint at the front of my mind. I reached her atonic tenderness, placed her supine and held her on my arms, and lifted her with ease. I gave her a shower, covered her tender body in sterile and purifying foam, and my eyes delighted, slowly, with every drop of water that fell from above and clashed with her skin, washing it all away like a gentle caress. Afterwards I prepared a bath for her, with the tub only half full. Now I'm quite certain that was the right choice, as filling the bathtub to its full capacity would have given her the opportunity to end the proceedings much sooner than they did, with the state in which she was at the time. My shock and frustration were such that I was compelled to turn on even the light on the bathroom, and with just a second-split turn of a switch there she was for my eyes, showcased in sun-like yellow, resting her delicate head on the slanted white marble, quite below the edge at the top of the tub, with tears still flowing out of her swollen eyes, which seemed to glisten blood red, with her body submerged in the water and bubbles up to the waist. The only movements I could perceive from her were that of her little shoulders and chest, swaying inward and outwards with her subdued breathing, and a subtle sob stirred by melancholy once every full minute or so. I knelt beside her and placed my elbows on the edge of the tub, I had her right below me. She could've been five inches tall, I could've been ten feet. I started caressing her forehead softly, with the motion of my fingers going from temple to temple, brushing and sweeping her hair to the side, leaving her face uncovered for only a moment, after which her voluminous hair went back to guard her face and I began my motion once more. Then I spoke to her, but she turned away and closed her eyes. That was all she did.

Her state didn't ameliorate in the following days, and I was left with the not-so-lamentable task of having to tend to every single one of her needs as if she were a lifeless doll. From lifting her completely limp body off the bed in the morning, to dropping her rigid, chagrined muscles on the same bed at night, she absolutely relinquished her agency away and I was there to catch it. From the beginning of our one-hearted dance it became obvious to me that even in her state she hadn't lost all of her vitality, and what she had left of it she focused solely on opposing most of my benevolent gestures. Sweet rag doll Nene would make adorably ineffective efforts to keep her lips pressed together tightly every morning when I brushed her teeth; though she'd quickly relent after the few seconds of struggle it took me to open her pout, and then she'd look at the front of her with childishly annoyed eyes, and attempt to hinder my task further by pointlessly trying to make herself heavier. Every afternoon I'd carry her, my seasoned, sentient puppet in my arms, like a baby, holding the entirety of her core with my relatively long left arm, the sweet, fragile back of her head with my right palm, and letting her thin dancer legs dangle and wave gracefully along with my pace around the house. No task—regardless of how cumbersome it might have seemed—diminished my devotion towards her, which instead increased with every passing day. That said, if I were forced to pick the most arduous of my daily activities my choice would most likely be her feeding. Nothing would please her taste, not the special pap I bought for her, which was specifically designed for her species, nor her favorite ensemble, leppa berries smothered in cream. And the food itself wasn't the problem, seeing as, with her being significantly more intelligent than a barely conscious baby, also considerable dexterous so as to successfully parry and avoid my spoonfuls, she'd exasperate me to the point that I'd have to forcefully insert the food in her mouth and keep my hand pressing her jaw and lips until she finally swallowed. During a particularly stressful moment of this kind, in the heat of the moment it occurred to me to touch her horn at the same time I kept the food from bursting out of her mouth, apparently finding the root of the problem, as I sensed concretely with my own taste buds what she actually had inside hers; I tasted ash; I tasted the smell of ash. I tried again, and then two more times, using different foods on each occasion, and the resulting sensation was the same unpleasant flavor on all four of them, in fact in the last try the taste was so abhorrent that I was forced to head to the bathroom and release my own previously eaten meal. Nevertheless I continued feeding her. Raise their hand whoever would've let her starve, to death.

After I made this discovery I began touching her horns during every activity and afterwards. It wouldn't surprise me if I somehow found out that during those days of care and research my hands spent more time holding her horns than… not doing it. Most of the time her overall sensation was easy to discern, either utter sadness, annoyance, or exasperation, and sometimes anger. Less commonly she'd mentally demand that I take my hand off of her horns, and rarely, she'd tease me with a snippet from her past life, which at this point still showed the alien semblances. She was most annoyed right before a bath, and most peaceful, even content, during the bath. She hated the special pap I got for her the most out of all the foods, although, curiously, she absolutely loathed the smell of leppa berries smothered in cream. Light caresses unnerved her, my humming calmed her down. She would only lay on top of me without dreading every ensuing second if she was resting on her back, and only on the couch. Nobody stopped me from conducting a few more elaborate, albeit harmless experiments, certainly not her (facetious remark). "Healing items" used by "trainers" had no discernible effects on her most of the time, only on two occasions did the so-called potions incited a noticeably assuaging sensation. The first time right after a drawer full of shoes fell on her delicate arm, and the second time right after the same experiment was repeated, to substantiate the evidence. Knowing her type, I went through the significant trouble of obtaining a significant portion of a stunky's fur (not hair), which I then fancied into a fancy handkerchief, which I then pressed and then rubbed against one of her horns whilst my other hand rested upon her other horn. I felt concrete discomfort, extreme aversion against my own touch and motion, for which I went against my instincts to continue, and the distinct, characteristic feeling of being burned for standing too close to a fire, right on top of my head, on the same side as her affected horn, which became increasingly painful the more I kept rubbing the poisonized handkerchief on her. Afterwards I took painstaking measures to make myself with enough stunky fur to fancy five fancy handkerchiefs, and then of course I gave her a potion.

A few weeks later, or perhaps only a few days, I really cannot say, regardless, at some point Nene imploded, right before her evening bath. First she refused to get up from her chair at the kitchen table after dinner, fully aware that the bath was next. Next, when I lovingly released the hold of her diminutive hand to the armrest, and carried her on my arms, she started twisting her arms and torso and kicking the innocent air, to no avail. Next, she held on to the bathroom doorknob and let out a scream which reminded me of her lovely, harmonious voice, which I then realized I missed so much and was only happy to hear again. The use of her voice was effective enough to distract me and with both of her arms she released herself from my arms and consequently fell to the ground, which was far enough away from her body to make me recoil in fear. Immediately after hitting the tiles below my feet she got up and tried to run away, luckily I was able to grab her torso from behind, lifted her using her warm armpits to support her, and then turned her around. She became completely limp when she saw the readied tub. "Look," I said to her, "it's the water, you love being in the water, it's your favorite," and she didn't respond. I knelt down, and attempted to convince her to get in without letting go of her, but she grabbed the edge of the tub and moaned softly; I could feel the trembling of her fragile rib cage with my palms as she moaned softly. At this point she had become unresponsive once more, although she was still considerably rigid. I stuck my chest to her back, and led her front to the edge of the tub, and pressed her core between surfaces, to stop her from escaping even if I freed my hands, which I then used to embellish the water and the foam in front of us. "Look, the bubbles, you love watching the bubbles. This will be good for you, Nene. Come on, I know you're sad but you can do it. Get in, one leg at a time." I caressed her head and touched her horn, and got a dull gray and a faint desire to move my leg. I tried to cheer her up once more, and she did raise her leg, insignificantly. Afterwards she moaned louder with her mouth closed—my own rib cage trembled—as she raised her head and tried to free herself, and then I pushed her inside. She fell in the water face first, she got up, wet, and faced me, and screamed with her throat. I warned her not to continue, arguing she could hurt her lovely, narrow larynx, but it didn't work and Nene screamed again, with tired eyes clearly filled with pent up anger. She tried to come out of the tub but I stopped her easily, and then, then she got genuinely angry. I, filled with curiosity, attempted to touch her horn but my hand was viciously smacked away—her touch was weak but I feigned pain—and then Nene began breathing heavily as she stared at me with eyes consumed with anger on the verge of tears, her whole torso went up and down with every breath she took. That's when I realized, she was preparing an attack. I recoiled, put my hands in front of me, closed my eyes and braced for the hit. My beloved screamed, louder than ever before, and that was it. "Don't you know any attacks?" I asked, more than anything, confused. She nodded, and then, after a heavy pause, during which her anger was specially palpable, she screamed again, like a child. "Is that it?" I said. And then she screamed once again. "Is that all you know?" I let her get out of the tub. She ran away to her usual hiding spot under the bed, leaving a trail of wet foam behind her.

She wasn't screaming, I wished she had been screaming; my ears had tasted her sweet voice and wanted more. I went to lay on the ground right next to the bed with my spirit soundly defeated, and when the back of my head touched the hard cold wood, with a blunt hit that hurt more than what I expected, that's when I became unable to ignore the unbearable stillness of a moment with nothing to hold on to, and, perhaps the pervasive fear didn't take over me, but the unbearable suffering forever accompanying it did reach me. I had to turn away from the bed. I couldn't look at her, curled up into a ball, hiding in the darkness, we were truly soulmates, afraid of life, one and the same. Once, long before Nene's own stagnant spell, long before I even met her, I suffered one stagnant spell of my own, remarkably similar to hers—all of my food tasted like raw meat, not ash. It required a lengthy spell at an expensive hospital, and perhaps just time, but I came out of it without a sign of it on my body.

With my back to her, I suddenly found myself completely disinterested and went to lay on the couch. I even let the light on, that's how little I cared. I, I hid the front of my body from the light, I was mostly prone. An uncertain amount of time later I sensed her completely silent wandering, sensed she was acting out of pure childish curiosity, careless and shameless, raised my head and saw her, my princess, intensely stalking me from behind the edge of the bedroom door. Our shared look scared her away. I hid my eyes again. Sensed her nearing silence again. We shared another look that scared her body away again. It had become but a game to her, capricious little wench living in her own world. And so the third time we locked eyes mine showed a distinct vexation, which jeopardized all of my efforts and complicated my chances of getting her back. In that moment, however, and only during that moment, I didn't care, I was genuinely annoyed by her antics. So my eyes went back to hiding.

Because of what happened that day it all got better, or at least that particular situation did. Soon after my eyes remained buried on the couch, even after I once again sensed her playful teasing near, Nene grabbed my hand, the back of which was previously touching the ground, and subsequently, after a heart-piercing scare, during which I inferred our current home had been invaded by a pervert, and then I took notice of my beloved, she climbed onto the couch and abundantly felt both of my cheeks at the same time she closed her eyes, and presumably proceeded to do the same I'd do to her every time I touched her horns. When my identity was at its most dismantled state, I assume, she was able to sense within me something that convinced her to continue with our coupling exercise, see. Because I wasn't lying when I said I intended to protect her from the rest of the scum which constituted my worthless species. She didn't get instantly better, however. After that I continued taking care of her with the same completist endeavor, at least for an undetermined period of time. But Nene did get better, gradually her vitality returned and with every meal that I forced into her—to keep her alive—the taste of ash diminished until it disappeared almost completely. I even managed to obtain amiable one-syllable answers to my genuinely concerned questions.

During an evening after a clear day, when the winter cold had been adequately mitigated by hours of uninterrupted sunlight, I decided to put a small pause to our delightful seclusion inside the cottage, chiefly hoping the change of ambience and healthy sun-light would enliven her spirits. I dressed Nene up in the ensemble I'd gotten for her long ago: snow boots which with her diminutive figure reached her knees, and had to be padded with loose wool to remain firmly on her feet, a double-breasted coat, red, with four black buttons on either side, a white wool scarf masterfully laced around her brittle neck, and a fluffy beret of the exact same color as the coat—come to think of it, her outfit was made entirely of wool (except for the buttons). Wearing those clothes made her happy enough to try out a few graceful spins, and the enjoyed expression on her face as she turned was the same as when she performed her dance just for me in the woods. By that point I had taken it upon myself to avoid as much contact with her as I could withstand, as I intuited, rightly so, that the ostensible physical freedom I'd granted her would in turn conduct her closer to me. She felt free, and joyous enough to jump at me for a warm hug every once in a while, kiss my mouth with half-open lips sometimes after I innocuously reached my face to hers, and to hold on to my leg as we walked through the silent green.

Despicably soon after we began our walk, however, our harmonious surroundings were invaded by human meat cursed with motion. And it was a most horrendous vision, for the both of us, Nene and I. In this specific case, said meat had been packaged with excessive indulgence into two separate vessels, both of which gave out the semblance of a stereotypical countryman clearly past his prime as well as his ideal weight.

Judging by the fleeting glance I couldn't avoid giving them, these two men were deeply involved in a lively conversation which required complex gestures, intense arm flourishes and sudden twists of the torso and waist to be carried out appropriately, the subject of which my ears were thankfully too far to report. After a shared fit of laughter of the most boisterous kind, one of the men decided to reveal his navel, buried among abundant adipose, by lifting his top until it barely hid his pectorals. Not content with that amount of impudence, he then unconsciously turned his back to us and presented his trousers well below his waist, and the distinctly human line contoured by the two obscene lumps at either side mischievously peeking above it. Such grotesque imagery involuntarily encompassed the entirety of my mind as soon as my eyes received it, and has been since then uncomfortably ingrained to my memory. It assaults me at moments of numb despair like this.

After yet another vicious assassination of my psyche I found myself desperately needing to get away from that moment itself, in fact, I needed to run away at full throttle, as if I were to be running for my dear life besides Nene, with either (not) certain death, or the separation of her and I, looming right behind me. So I prompted us to hurry our pace through the woods, and soon after the trees stopped appearing in front of us and we came into a beautiful prairie, which was filled with varied forms of life, all of them seemingly pleasant. This land which was beforehand unknown to me, at contact with my eyes made my sight come alive with all of its bright colors which moved before me. There were fragile creatures beating their wings painted of a vibrant pink and white, leaving dashes of their colors as they roamed the sky, like violent brushes of paint on a clear blue background. There were flowers with cute and innocent smiles frolicking through the grass at a soothing pace, without a care in the world, without a filthy hand like mine tarnishing their vivid petals. There was a lonesome creature whose yellow eyes were perpetually sullen and looking down, effortlessly evoking an air of heavy melancholy; this small creature had a slender figure, mostly covered in fur as white as my beloved's; in fact, this creature greatly resembled my own beloved Nene; it clearly walked in two legs, was of the same stature as her, and had the same gracefully thin features. The most distinct differences were in the eyes, in the fangs of this other delightful beloved which protruded outside its mouth at all times; the ears, white as the rest of her, which arched upwards, and the twin tails which my own dearly beloved was sorely missing. I'm sure my own beloved caught wind of my staring at this new sight, and I can almost claim it caused her to become jealous—so of course I stared at her new rival more intensely, and with significant endeavor. And this was, until this charming new creature took notice of my presence and psychic influence on the land, and wisely chose to flee. Its presence in this beautiful land was then replaced by another human, which jarringly polluted the previously pure atmosphere and my vision when she walked in out of nowhere, with her female figure, and her warm, inviting smile directed at us. She was followed by a herd of jolly gogoats and skiddos, the sight of which assuaged the hurt of her invasion. Afterwards, after shooting us a welcoming gesture with her coarse hand, without saying anything, this woman released one of her many creatures into our care, Nene's and mine, clearly intending for us to ride on it for a long while.

The skiddo she left with us instantly understood the implicit command, and consequently laid flat on the ground. I lifted Nene with ease and mounted her tender body on the soft leaves on the skiddo's back, then I gently touched her horn: she was happy, and eager. Then I myself mounted the skiddo, placing myself close—as close as I could be—behind Nene. In actuality it took me a while to get on top of it, a few attempts, struggles, and laughs coming from the farmer girl, owner of the skiddos. When I was settled safely on top of the creature, firmly holding on to my beloved's belly with one hand and on to the skiddo with the other, the nimble creature stood up and bolted out aimlessly, and at first I did fear for our safety, after the first pull from complete stillness into considerable velocity gave my neck and head a good stir; furthermore, going at such violent pace through the prairie made me worry about where we'd end up when the impromptu trip on top of the skiddo ended. However just a few anxious moments with rigid muscles later I learned its circular path, and consequently the limits of the land the creature was allowed to roam—apparently, during our evening walk, we had trespassed into the property of some friendly farmers, who'd let their equally friendly creatures be ridden by any unknown visitors without any reservations. It was yet another farm where strangers could take part in the riding of the farm-bound creatures, and for this, and for the farmers' indulgent courtesy, I was slightly grateful, even for their existence. After only a few taxing minutes, both Nene and I got used to the swaying forward and backwards on top of the skiddo, the jumps, the turns, the constant contacts of our pelvic floors on its hefty back, and the rhythmic motions of our perfect trifecta. I was able to tighten my grip on Nene, I put my arm around her and led her closer to me, probably restricting her ability to breath. I didn't touch her horn. With my hold, her rear was separated from the skiddo's back, and she was instead placed upon my lap; I didn't touch her horn, once again she didn't exist outside of me. Her skin could've been my own. Soon we found ourselves rocking back and forth with the help of the creature beneath us, our surroundings had disappeared, everything around us could've been pitch-black for all I knew, and we were able to focus solely on the flow of the wind and of the moment. Nene's audible exhalations became deeper, yet more subdued, as if she performed them with an impassioned, quiet intention, and soon after she began performing them in unison with the rocking motion of my hip, with her eyes closed, with her mouth half-open, with the back of her head resting on my chest, and I, rigid and desperately holding on to her in full silence, and in the middle of winter both her and I, began to sweat.


	10. 11

11

Entering back into consciousness, supine, and stricken obliquely by the morning sun breaking through the ineffectual curtains, in the damp softness of my seclusion, stamped with a bend sinister of faint light; immediately fearing the warm closeness of my little lady laying limp by my side—I, afflicted again by the same uncertainty (dread), which lasts until that familiar contact of my cold skin with her white silk smoothness, the attachment of our tissues, Nene's and mine, seemed appropriate and pleasurable, just and necessary, as usual. It was remarkably easy to forget how solid her delicate head was, until I had it within the gentle and ergonomic hold of my arms; there I'd keep Her, safe and warm, until one of us decided it was time to move.

It was always She who wished to leave the bed first. When this blind alley was unfortunately reached, two out of three times, I would let my beloved break away from our embrace and leave by her volition. At that point, right after the end of her first stagnant stage, sweet Nene still found my caresses agreeable and—dare I say—pleasant, as informed by the contact of my palms with her crimson horns. My almost complete access into her state of mind had its downsides, however, as it wasn't entirely one-sided, consequently, whenever I touched her crimson, she could uncover any of my ulterior motives with ease, with that simple neural connection. Because of this, I'd attempt to randomize my morning releases of her body with a trainer's carelessness, tinged by absurdity, so as to reinforce the illusion of her freedom. But the one time out of the three, I would keep my hold of her even after the obvious window to break away had passed, and regardless of her protests and her adorably ineffectual revolts, my muscles, my mischievous muscles which seldom chose to disobey me when handling her, decided to stay rigid as they kept my sweet beloved from separating her skin from mine. Of course, had I gotten my way with absolute dominion, the three times out of three I would keep her in me, and with the warmth generated by our infinite embrace would've melted her into my insides, would've at least hidden my hand within cells interlinked.

Soon after her state reached an acceptable normalcy, Nene and I moved away from the cottage on the woods outside Couriway Town, and into a cabin located on a distant campground outside Dendemille Town. On this campground there were numerous cabins for rent, all of them arrayed in a row mirroring a cul-de-sac, in the middle of the woods; with each cabin settled next to each other as close as teeth (at least in my eyes)—so, sadly, neighbors were uncomfortably closer—and, as opposed to the secluded, taciturn, normally harmonious cottage on Couriway, I actually had to pay rent on this second location. However this change needed to happen, as the cottage didn't remain secluded or harmonious for long; out of nowhere festering neighbors began appearing and knocking on our door, always with a different excuse. I knew the familiarity that would unavoidably be acquired would soon become invasive and unbearable. Whereas a nomadic lifestyle with my beloved seemed a delightful prospect, which would allow my lungs to breath unburdened and at full capacity. Yes, if what happened later had not done so, we would've moved away together into yet another secluded piece of nowhere, and then into another, and then another, ad infinitum—or, for some of you, perhaps, ad nauseam, although who am I kidding.

It was such a beautiful plan, a calculated risk that would have paid off, surely, in incalculable dividends of pleasure. In fact, at the start of our stay in the Dendemille cabin, our relationship was at its closest perfection—it surely would've been a fine lifetime, at least as far as I can dream. Inside our cabin my hand remained on her horn, and a numbing wave of delight made its rounds through our conjoint bodies. Outside, surrounded by breathing green and brown, both in the dewy mornings tinged of a carefree blue, and evenings colored of a morose, ascending violet, her head laid perpetually on my lap, and her hair glistened metallic green with the benevolent sun. Our connection was so nurturing, and so productive, that during this time my enchanting erudite acquired the ability to transmit complex and abstract messages by psychically adulterating the air around me, along with neural contact of my palm and her horn, of course. Floating words of an enticing pink, at her command, would form sentences right in front of me, and in this manner we were able to hold deep conversations, which frankly, did a funny number on my mindset and complicated my approach, at least temporarily.

I remember concretely one cold afternoon, which in moderate honesty (is more than that even possible?) didn't differ much from the rest of the afternoons that encompassed that lovely season. I unlocked the front door with my right hand while holding supplies I'd just bought on my left one, and went inside to find a still scene in chiaroscuro, which contained my beloved waiting eagerly on the softened couch situated in front of the screen. I had led her to develop a voracious addiction to one, just one, from the myriads of cinematic exercises manufactured solely to entice the nucleus accumbens of the viewer (commentator) for an extended second act, separated into neatly packaged hours which, after every sixty minutes or so, as the hurried credits roll, pretend to leave you with the illusion of wanting more; most of which were destined to end in disappointment brought about by unobtainable expectations and the vicarious enjoyment of killing what you love, because, brothers, aren't we all masochists? And why wouldn't we be? After all, what's a more autonomous activity than individually choosing to hurt oneself? Go on and seize the power, take control… Regardless, for the collective disillusionment that is left after each finale, the people behind the camera are always to blame but never responsible.

To my sweet Nene, that afternoon's episode of that particular series seemed too outlandish to line up inconspicuously with the rest, and so she, as the smart and responsible prosumer that she was, proceeded to let her thoughts out in the open for me. With floating words drawn in pink just for my eyes, she began her discourse after the episode ended. Firstly she decried the writer (author) of this particular episode, specifically for ruining that to which she had gradually attached herself over days and weeks full of mental machinations, and of course I marveled at the development of yet another insufferable mouth seeking merely to be entertained and distracted from the dullness of "real life", in real time, and in utero (which was the locked cabin), I watched one of those privileged and entitled brats indistinguishable from one another always consumed by the same simple anger, be born. So you see—because, doesn't this show; that, the difference between her species and my own, is nowhere near as wide as it is thought? And yet I am at fault for falling in love with her? (preposterous.) But going back to that afternoon. I saw the writing on the walls, I inferred that if she kept following that invisible path, she'd become like one of those people, who had lost their ability to discern reality by only being able to distinguish one reality. So I advised her, to avoid becoming corrupted by her own noble pursuits. I told her, never to think of the author as the protagonist of the story. Because the story isn't about the author being successful in his writing endeavors, as it would be in the case of a comedy, nor about the author making noticeable mistakes when writing the thing, which then ends with a mockery that fails miserably, as it would be the case of a tragedy. In other words, to these corrupted commentators, whether the story has a happy ending or a sad one, depends solely on the amount of mistakes, as well as the gravity of each of them, which the commentator can find in the author's creation. Of course, at this point said creation, the authored story itself, doesn't matter at all. And yet, at this point, these commentators can still see the error of their ways and seek redemption. If they are rotten to the core, beyond hope, then they will instead think of themselves as the protagonist of the story, and in this case the story itself is about them going around finding as many mistakes as they can, in either cursed images in motion, or condemned walls of meaningless text. It is clear that none of these commentators knows exactly why the stories fail, nevertheless, with their eyes half-open, staring at a blizzard through a blurry windshield, they are effectively aware that this is the case, because the stories have failed to distract them from the fact that what they are seeing is nothing but fabricated lies, my dear. If you forget that—it is all a lie—and if you only think the stories are cool, then, isn't that neat?

I said that to her that day; I would say something similar to her most days. Yes, I would say all of this knowing it would discourage Nene greatly, and then, she would need to be comforted, unavoidably one thing would lead to another, and so I'd take her without separating my body from my seat.

Another day, similar to that one on the couch, I found myself laying on top of Nene, holding myself at arm's length from her, with the two of us staring into each other's faces, with her persistently tenderized body holding on to my own, expectant to my words, which she hoped were reassuring, and which I was yet to arbitrarily choose that day. How soft her skin looked in its evening splendor, with a touch of the palest blue above the eyes and with the silver dew on her forehead, below the thick, disheveled fringe of pearlescent green hair. The distinct diminutive hairs above the outer canthus, on the contour of her eyes—her scant yet adorable eyelashes. And right below, her faintly flushed cheeks which demanded to be kissed twice each.

After the third kiss—I don't remember on which cheek—in my conditioned numbness I touched her horn, letting my innermost mental mappings revealed for her. With this inadvertent mistake my ill-fated ingenue learned of my latent schemes, some of which were developed enough to have dates set for their enactment, one of which involved the search for a most suitable, most appropriate mate for a strictly biological connection which would occur only under my complete supervision, and only because said contact would be unequivocally required to produce one and perhaps why not twenty fresh Nenes, all of whom I would care for with the same love and devotion as with the original.

This scheduling mishap and botched execution—of course I would have been more sensible and timely when revealing the details of her future motherhood to her, sadly my control of her wasn't absolute—caused a temporary rift between us, Nene and I. This particular dispute was significant enough to compel her, suddenly raving with anxiety, to grab my key—the only key—from my pocket, unlock the door, and promptly run out of the cabin, still drenched on the synthesis of our scents. In her frantic distress delirious Nene tripped and fell into the communal pool. Unlike her, in that moment I was lucid enough to mind the state of that stagnant water, which could be used by either the rustic tenants or by any nearby creature of the forest freely squatting on the premises for a purulent dip. Nevertheless, I, like the consciously concerned partner that I was, went in the water fully dressed and tried to get her out. Even then, even after all I'd done for her, even after going into that cesspool of infections just for her, the ungrateful little witch refused to come out, and in fact seemed to be dead set on remaining submerged eternally (although it would be technically impossible for her to accomplish that). It seemed I'd had enough of her, I pulled her out and took her inside, closed the door behind me, locked it, took off my maligned clothes; went in the shower without letting go of her rigid sulk, then took her to bed, and kept her there with my unyielding arms.

It took only the contact of my hand with her horn to calm her down, as I knew it would. All I had to do was to bring to the forefront of my mind my endless devotion for her while I touched her, my undeniable love, my desire to protect her, and my remembrance of the effect her closeness had on my mood, as even during the nights when her cries were most inconsolable, this psychic combination ameliorated her state. A good rub of my special purple handkerchief on her horn also helped to calm her down. And then, she found herself down and in need of comforting, as she always would after a purple rub on her crimson, and then one thing led to another, as one thing would always lead to another, and one thing only seems to lead to one another thing, which is always the same, although I'm not complaining.

That wasn't the only time my adorable abductee attempted to thwart her loving confinement. On yet another morning, after I woke up to find her gone, she sent me on an exhaustive search which took me all the way to the second closest train station, where I finally found her a few hours later, trying to get on a train back to Couriway. It was after this that I realized the gratuitously pampered Nene had become quite capricious and entitled. Make no mistake, I had taken it upon myself to constantly shower her with gifts, delicacies and poems which did do their due to fill her with transient pleasure and delight, doses of which were injected into her consistently until her daily quota expanded to unacceptable levels, and in that way she wasn't different from a despicable human with their inner bottomless void—nevertheless a comparison is laughable still, as even then the difference between the species is so stark, I'd take her unbearable before a human dead. Regardless, when everything else failed, a rub of her horn with my purple handkerchief would subjugate her to the will of her doting carer.

After that particular attempt to escape—when another retribution seemed to be in order—another discovery was made, when touching her horn I implicitly asked her to bring me images which she thought would appease my disappointment. Apparently, it is a rather common ability of those of her precious kin. She could create vivid, dense and palpable optical illusions by psychically altering the atmospheric conditions around her immediate surroundings. I only needed to think of my specific order of the day, with a single frame colored of my current mood containing as many a lovely creature as I pleased, in order for Nene to produce a concentrated enclosure within which I would take part in a moment, painted by her using my frame as a base, of a life that was for as long as I wanted. I remember clearly what my first order was, starring two notoriously evasive creatures of legend. Excuse my cloying, for I appeared laying on a cloud while soothing blue filled walls and ceiling and then took the form of a sphere inside which I waited expectant, as white dots simulating stars were softly blown in and then stamped on the blue. Both the illogical nature of my space and the surreal softness of the vapor bed were tangible for my senses, and I remember my stay on that sphere, with the same clarity I remember sitting on a bench on the park near the hotel where I grew up in, during a sunny day of my childhood—my beloved was truly an artist. In front of me the first actress of that true-to-life vignette was called to appear. Bright glowing cells began agglutinating into the lithe white body of a mythical singer, forming uniformly from head to toe concurrently with the downwards motion of my eyes, first her green cascade oscillating to my right, then her blue wet orbs with the top eyelids slanted inwards producing a piercing blue look and a shiny jewel of the same color burst encrusted on her forehead—eyes heading down—neck with the same girth as that of my malnourished finger, non-existent shoulders leading to withered arms, as delightful as they are frail—eyes heading down—at the center her stomach hugged by a green surcingle—eyes heading down—below which her rump condensed with an eager jiggle—eyes stop where the last of her does—and her white porcelain legs come out of her gray-brown dress. She jiggles her exquisitely curved waist once more and releases sparkling drops, then releases her unadulterated tune and puts me in a trance which enters through my ears and renders my head and chest rigid with ecstasy. Then it's the deuteragonist's turn, still vital to our impending dance in the sky. A sun with hypnotic pink eyes enters through a rift in the blue with white dots, with a pink lump on what then becomes the forehead, and then sharp edges still glowing bright yellow, but I can see she's golden, with a line of 24 karat falling down and at the sides blue begins pouring and then I can see that her body is like that of a legless, wingless swanna with a queen's helmet in the form of two crescent moons converging at the top, and she has three rings glowing pink orbiting around her at all times, with a burning constellation where I can see myriads of closed eyes behind her, and then I hear a grave snore, and see a jealous blue eye hidden behind gray smoke, and then another rift appears within the first rift in a way in which the edges of the two are superimposed, simulating the counterpart of the specific part of his, and then I laugh, at the sardonic gesture of my beloved before I find myself naked and ready to begin, the blue around me gradually and in patches turns sundown orange, and I hear a thunder with my keenest senses, it is as real as a dull day, the two of them overwhelming me, and I remember Elpis the one with the fangs covered in white fur, on top of the store in front of the school, and I introduce her to Nene as she stares at the trifecta from afar and then Elpis disappears, and it is just the two pokemon of myth and I sensually tracing our surfaces as a tangle of vaguely-sketched limbs through which beams of fluorescent light roam incandescent, until I lose my ability to discern and clumsily grab on to nuanced solid and soft as I stare at a mirror above us which holds infinite space behind our images which show our eager eyes enraptured in delight even though they are closed, closed off, and sewn together, and the rhythmical hips of the singer within which I distinguish my throbbing glowing, vibrant red, which I then can see translucent, and then we are paused, thanks to my dearly beloved's educated instincts, and then I can capture the three of us and contemplate us in eternal bliss, and the dazzling tears of a successful affair which sojourns where mythology stretches and swooning galaxies die of jealousy, and it all dissolves the same way as consciously falling asleep, as I desperately hold on to a heaving hot horn, as I am tossed at the cold ground of the cabin, and then I can see the ceiling I recognize, and then a purple handkerchief is thrown at my face, so that I may wipe the palms of my aching weakening hands. And yet a myriad of cotton planets still orbited intensely inside and outside my head, far away from that cabin in Dendemille. Even then and there I could tell I was proud for having trained my beloved so well, as the concrete sensorial experience which is not unlike living with five senses working optimally, depended solely on her sensual instincts, her experience, and her genuine enjoyment of any proceedings of this kind, whether seemingly real or fabricated as real, by her, and regardless of what she could've answered to this statement about her, demure and prudent Nene—perhaps she would've objected, blushed and retreated, but, for better or worse, it is the commentator who has the last word.


End file.
